


Who Will Stop the Rain

by Keep_Calm_And_Expecto_Patronum



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Heavy Rain
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Noir, Angst, Child Death, F/M, Hallucinations, Head Auror Harry Potter, Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Psychological Torture, Self-Mutilation, Suicide, Thriller, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 05:43:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 34,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15834930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keep_Calm_And_Expecto_Patronum/pseuds/Keep_Calm_And_Expecto_Patronum
Summary: How far will you go to save someone you love?The Wizarding World is being terrorised by the ‘Origami Killer’, whose victims are all discovered drowned, four days after they go missing. Seemingly the only clues are an origami figure, and a narcissus, discovered on each of their bodies.The wizarding public is gripped by fear and paranoia. The Aurors seem no closer to identifying a credible suspect. And now another potential victim has disappeared - Scorpius Malfoy.As the clock ticks against suspicion and anxiety, three familiar faces are drawn into the investigation - each following their own leads in a desperate search for Scorpius.Each of them knows what the cost will be if they don't reach him in time - and they will soon be forced to ask themselves just how far they are prepared to go…





	1. Father and Sons

**Author's Note:**

> A special thank you to my beta [ Nymphadorable ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymphadorable/pseuds/Nymphadorable) for your patience and help!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those not familiar with the game, I’ll quickly fill in the gaps without spoilers:
> 
> Draco substitutes the role of Ethan Mars, a single father who is crippled with guilt and remorse at the death of his eldest son (who I’ve created as an original character in this story, Cetus Malfoy). He’s recently divorced, and is feeling increasingly distant from his youngest son, Scorpius. Just when he thinks things can’t get any worse (and they always do), Scorpius is kidnapped by the enigmatic Origami Killer. 
> 
> Hermione substitutes the role of Madison Paige, an investigative reporter who is currently investigating the Origami Killer and is as keen to find the culprit as Harry and the Aurors. Madison is a lot like Hermione - both are intelligent, self-reliant, and trustworthy friends. 
> 
> Much like when Ethan and Madison first meet, Draco is suspicious of Hermione’s intentions, but Hermione proves to be a trustworthy and invaluable ally for what he has to face throughout the story. 
> 
> All I will say about the Origami Killer (who shall remain anonymous) is that while their crimes are heinous and unforgivable, what I liked about the game was how they tried to portray the character as one that is as sympathetic as they are abhorrent. While I have changed their story quite a bit from the original, I’ve attempted to do the same here. 
> 
> Anyone who has played the game will see I’ve diverged quite a bit from the story in some parts and remain true in others. I had to make certain changes for various reasons. Part of that was the length of the story. Yes, the story is already much larger than I’d intended, but if I had stuck with the original games storyline for the killer, this would have been at least twice if not three times the length. I’m actually happier with how I changed the killer’s story because I think it fits better within the Harry Potter universe. One thing that was a fun challenge was making the trials centered around magic - I was determined NOT to use mobile phones in this story, however more convenient they would have been!
> 
> Heavy Rain (the game which this story is inspired by) is one of my all-time favourite video games, and Ethan and Madison remain one of the most endearing mismatched couples I’ve ever come across. It isn’t particularly romantic, but extraordinary circumstances bring these two people together and it was fun writing how their relationship develops; he finds solace in her when he has no one else in the world, and unlike most traditional romances, she is the one rescuing him (more than once, and usually from himself). 
> 
> So, you might have gathered that this isn’t a conventional love story. I know the tags will probably scare some people off, but anything I’ve written in this story isn’t just for shock-value, it’s for the purposes of story progression. Pain, guilt and suffering are central to this story, but love is at the heart of this tale more than anything else; love can consume you, or it can give you the courage to face your worst fears, even death. That’s what I loved about the game, and that’s what inspired me to write this story in the first place.
> 
> So while the story is woefully short on laughs and fluff, I hope you enjoy what I’ve written.

 

“Dad! Dad, come look,” cried Cetus excitedly. Draco suppressed a smile and wandered over to the display window of Quality Quidditch Supplies where his sons, Cetus and Scorpius, stood with their noses pressed against the glass, eyes wide with envy.

“See something you like?” he asked lightly.

“It’s the Firebolt Supreme,” breathed Scorpius, sounding awestruck. “Fastest broomstick in the world!”

“The Bulgarian national team just bought these,” Cetus informed Draco. “The old Firebolts only managed a top speed of one-fifty. These can clock in at one-seventy.”

“Impressive,” Draco nodded.

“And expensive, no doubt,” Astoria pointed out, drawing her husband a reproachful look. Draco ignored this and rested his hand on his eldest son’s shoulder.

“Is that what you want?” he asked. Cetus nodded vigorously and Draco smiled, “Well you run on inside with your brother and tell the shopkeeper we’ll be buying one today.”

The boys sprinted into the shop before their father could change his mind, slamming the door shut behind them. Astoria glared at Draco, “Don’t you think it’s a bit much?”

“It’s his birthday,” he shrugged. “It’s what he wants and I can afford it. What’s the problem?”

“I’m trying to keep him grounded - metaphorically-speaking,” she argued. “You said your own father showered you with gifts when you were growing up and it only served to inflate your ego. Aren’t you just doing the same thing?”

“My father bought a dozen broomsticks to get me on to the school team. Although I maintain that I would have gotten on the team without his help, I was certainly talented enough,” he drawled. “This is Cetus’ birthday present, the two situations are hardly comparable. Besides, he’ll be starting Hogwarts this year, I want him to have the best of everything before he gets there.”

Astoria glanced through the shop window and frowned - the shopkeeper was already wrapping up the broomstick and handing it to her son. She glared at Draco, “You already bought the damn thing, didn’t you?”

“I had to pre-order it months in advance to make sure he got it in time for his birthday,” he explained with a careless shrug.

“You don’t go and buy a vault’s worth of gifts for our son without consulting me first!” she hissed.

Draco groaned, “What’s the big deal? It’s my money to spend.”

“You should consult me in these things before you go and do them!” she argued. “Parenting is supposed to be done together. Not one person does things and the other finds out later!”

Draco opened his mouth to argue but shut it when Cetus burst out of the shop, brandishing the broomstick above his head in victory, “I can’t believe you already bought one! Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

Cetus ran into his father’s arms and hugged him tightly. Astoria pursed her lips and said nothing, but gave Draco a look that said, We’re not done talking about this. He gave his wife an apologetic look, although he didn’t feel sorry at all; the elated expression on his son’s face in that moment was worth all the gold in his vaults and then some.

Suddenly there was a commotion behind him. Something smashed to the ground and people screamed. Draco began to turn to see what all the fuss was about when--

“AVADA KEDAVRA!”

Green light exploded across Draco’s vision and he gasped. He knew the words, but he didn’t register their meaning at the time. He just remembered falling and Cetus falling with him into darkness.

Draco’s eyes flew open and he stared blankly at the dark ceiling above him. The room was still shrouded in darkness so he couldn’t have been asleep for very long. He sighed and wiped the tears and sweat off of his face, shame and exhaustion washing over him in waves. He never slept well nowadays, but then it’d been years since he’d had a restful night’s sleep, even before Cetus had died.

Rather than mulling over that moment for the millionth time, he forced himself to consider the tasks for the day ahead. Every step took a tremendous effort on his part nowadays: Get out of bed. Shower. Brush teeth. Eat. Walk. Breath. Christ, the mere thought of it was exhausting. But he couldn’t hide in his small fortress of solitude today, he had to get up - he wanted to. It was Scorpius’ birthday, after all.

The same age as Cetus was when he died, he reminded himself unhelpfully. He’d get to see Scorpius in the morning before dropping him off at his mother’s for his party. He had a fairly good idea what gift he wanted this year, he just hoped it would make him smile the way that he used to.

Draco promised himself that he would get up soon, but for the moment he was content to lie in the dark, listening to the rain batter off of the window. He found it soothing and it helped lull him into another uneasy sleep, into the same nightmare he had had every night for the last two years.

“Dad! Dad, come look,” cried Cetus excitedly...


	2. Crime Scene

The rain lashed down on Harry’s head, but he paid it no mind. A quick _Impervius_ charm kept the worst of it off of his face, though he barely felt the rain beating down on him; instead, his eyes were fixed on the worst sight imaginable, even for someone in a job as unsavoury as his. He had been expecting it, of course, but that didn’t make it any less gut-wrenching to see.

He flashed his badge and walked passed the two Aurors standing sentry at the crime scene, his boots squelching in the mud as he approached the canvas partition that had been carefully erected around the body. Pulling back the canvas he felt his stomach clench, his worst fears confirmed - it was Adrian Nott. Harry recognised the boy immediately from all of the Missing posters.

Harry felt like he was thrown back to that fateful night at the graveyard in Little Hangleton - the small, broken body on the ground reminded him of Cedric, lying spread eagle, staring up blankly at the cloudy sky with eyes that could no longer see. More than twenty years had passed since that night, but the memories remained clear in his mind as though it had happened only yesterday. Harry’s mind wandered; he had tried to keep in touch with Amos and his wife, he had always endeavoured to at least stop by on the anniversary of Cedric’s death, but in the last few years he had been too busy to visit. He still sent an owl just to let them know that he hadn’t forgotten, that he would never forget. He couldn’t, even if he’d wanted to…

Pushing his spiralling thoughts aside, he focused on the task at hand. Kneeling down beside the body he pulled out his wand and began muttering a series of incantations under his breath, carefully tracing the illuminated tip over Adrian’s lifeless form.

“So is it another one?” asked a voice behind Harry. He looked round and saw Ron peering over his shoulder, his eyebrows set in a deep frown. Harry nodded.

“The boy bears all the hallmarks of the Origami Killer’s previous victims: each of them was kidnapped in a public place and with little or no defensive wounds found on their bodies, this would imply that they either knew their killer or trusted the person that took them.”

“An authority figure,” Ron suggested. Harry shrugged.

“Most likely. We can’t rule out that it’s a woman, either - people are less inclined to feel threatened by a woman. But the profile suggests that we’re dealing with a white male, probably in his late thirties.”

“Merlin Harry, that doesn’t exactly narrow down our list of suspects,” Ron muttered.

“I know,” he sighed. “We’ve got little else to go on. We know that each body has been found on some type of wasteland, always adjacent to the train tracks approximately three to five days after they’ve been abducted, and never more than six hours post-mortem. This shows us that the person who orchestrated these events didn’t kill his victims immediately after abduction.”

“Why does he keep them alive?” asked Ron, thinking aloud. “What does he do with them?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry replied slowly. “There’s no signs of sexual trauma or any indication that they’ve been otherwise mistreated.”

Harry looked back at the body and sighed. He was exhausted with the case but too wired to get any real sleep. He’d been running on empty for weeks, trying to ignore the mounting public pressure to catch the killer, trying to focus his efforts on the case. Of course, it’s always difficult to remain objective in a case that involves children - particularly when the children were the same age as his own boys.

Harry rose to his feet and exited the tent. He’d rather face the rain than spend another second looking at the poor boy’s face. Ron followed Harry in the direction of the group of reporters who stood cordoned off at the opposite end of the street, mercifully out of sight of the body and the crime scene. He’d have to give them a quick briefing of what they’d found. He loathed doing it, knowing more often than not the headline would centre around him instead of the details of the case.

As he marched up towards the large group of bustling reporters, Harry ran through the facts of the case with Ron again, trying to decipher any new meaning from what few clues they had.

“All victims are young boys aged between nine and thirteen years of age, each killed in the same fashion - drowned by rainwater,” he mused. “We’ll need the coroner to confirm, but I’m fairly certain it’ll be the same case here.”

“This makes eight victims in total,” noted Ron grimly, his head bowed against the howling wind and rain.

“Eight so far,” Harry added darkly. “Whoever this guy is, he’s got no intention of stopping.”

“So he brings them out here in the middle of nowhere, I suppose so he has time to arrange the bodies,” Ron continued. Harry nodded in agreement.

“And each of the victims has had their faces completely covered in mud post-mortem. This indicates that the killer has no personal hostility towards his victims. There’s also the trademark placement of the narcissus and the origami figure on the body - the team’s already taken them away for analysis.”

“Strange, isn’t it?” said Ron slowly. “Leaving little paper animals for each of the victims. What do you suppose that’s all about?”

“They’re a gift,” Harry noted simply. “An apology of sorts.”

“For killing them?” asked Ron incredulously. Harry didn’t answer. No, he didn’t think that was what the killer was sorry about. If he could figure that much out, he would be one giant step closer to finding this bastard.


	3. Paparazzi

Harry’s expression hardened as he approached the gaggle of reporters who all stood huddled together behind a magical barrier one of the rookie Aurors had put in place. His eyes scanned the crowd and his gaze fell upon that of his old school friend, Hermione Granger, who unlike the others screaming questions and waving quills in his face, stood sedately to one side, watching him closely. He raised his hand and the crowd fell silent. For a moment, he didn’t speak, the only sound was the rain battering off of their sodden cloaks and parchment.

“The body of a young boy was found by a passer-by at about four-thirty this morning,” he began. “We regret to confirm that the victim is Adrian Nott.”

The reporters erupted with more questions. Harry pointed to one of them and they asked, “Was the victim drowned like all the others?”

“An autopsy will be conducted in order to determine the victims cause of death,” he explained, nodding to another reporter. They lowered their hand and asked.

“Do the Aurors believe that this is the work of the Origami Killer?” 

“We cannot say conclusively whether or not this is the work of the Origami Killer,” Harry countered evasively. Not that it would make any much difference, everyone already knew that it was. 

“Did the killer leave any written evidence? Perhaps a written note to explain his actions?” shouted another reporter from near the back of the group.

“The killer hasn’t made any attempts to contact us in any way and we have only the murders to help us understand his motives,” said Harry monotonously. 

“According to certain sources, the Ministry has been applying pressure to avoid any mention of a serial killer in order not to have an adverse effect of the Minister’s re-election campaign,” Rita Skeeter called. “Do you have anything to say about that, Auror Potter?”

Harry resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. Typical of Skeeter to focus on the political element of the story rather than the victim. 

“Pure speculation,” he replied shortly. “At no time has the Minister been involved in this case, except to support the efforts of the Auror Department.”

“Some people are saying that the Auror Department were slow to take an interest in these murders because the victims are the children of former Death Eaters. What do you say to that?”

Harry’s head snapped towards Hermione and he glared at her. She stared back at him expectantly, defiantly, waiting for him to answer her question. 

“The Auror Department makes no distinction between victims based on their backgrounds,” Ron interjected. “These are children we’re talking about for Merlin’s sake, we all want to see this bastard caught.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled throughout the group of reporters. Hermione frowned a little and scribbled something in her notepad. Harry decided to wrap things up there before Hermione started asking more awkward questions.

“The Auror Department will continue to work around the clock to find the murderer as quickly as possible,” he finished. “That’s all I’ll say for now. Thank you for your time.”

As he turned to leave he caught Hermione’s eye and gave her the slightest of nods. She ducked under the barrier and followed Harry and Ron as they marched in the direction of a nearby alleyway. Once they were out of sight, Harry cast a Silencing Charm for good measure while Ron stood guard a couple feet away in case they were interrupted. 

“It’s him, isn’t it?” asked Hermione, looking expectantly at Harry. 

“This is off the record, yeah?” he asked. Hermione stuffed her notepad into her cloak and waited for him to reply. Harry gave a curt nod, “It’s him.”

“I knew it,” she muttered. “Still no suspects?”

Harry shrugged, “Other than the suspect is probably a white male in his mid-to-late thirties with a knowledge of the London area.”

“Which could be anyone,” she noted. 

“Don’t remind me,” he grumbled, pushing his sodden hair out of his face. “We thought it might be someone with a grudge against members of The Dark Order - someone who was a victim of Voldemort’s.”

“That could be a lot of people, Harry,” Hermione pointed out. Harry nodded solemnly.

“And we can’t rule out the possibility that a disgruntled Death Eater is responsible, either,” he continued. “One of the loyalists like the Lestranges or the Rosiers. Someone who wants to punish those who they think had abandoned their Master.”

Hermione looked despondent, “So what you’re saying is that it could be anyone.”

“Not necessarily,” Harry argued. “The genus of the narcissus left by the bodies is rare - too rare to be found in a Muggle garden - so there’s a good chance that the suspect is from a wizarding family, so that at least rules out Muggleborns.” 

“That still doesn’t leave you with much to go on,” she sighed. “Is there no other developments in the case?”

Harry and Ron shared a meaningful glance at one another before he answered, “There is one thing we haven’t mentioned to the press. I’m telling you this in confidence, Hermione - don’t print this.”

“If it’s going to affect your ability to catch this monster, I won’t mention it,” she assured him, looking up at him expectantly. Despite the fact that they were alone and shielded under a Silencing Charm, Harry lowered his voice.

“Adrian’s father, Theo,” he whispered. “He’s missing.”

Hermione’s eyes widened with shock.

“Missing?” she asked in disbelief. “Since when?” 

“Four days ago,” said Harry. “The day after he and Pansy came into the Aurors office to report Adrian missing, he disappeared. Pansy came into the office in some state, said he hadn’t even taken his wand or his coat with him. Nobody’s seen him since.”

“Oh my god,” breathed Hermione. “Surely you don’t think he’s involved with his own son’s murder?”

“I wouldn’t like to think that,” said Harry gravely. “But at this point, with so little information to work with, we can’t rule out anything.”

“And he’s not the only one,” Ron chipped in, glancing over his shoulder at the pair. “Marcus Flint and Blaise Zabini are missing, too. They reported their boy’s missing, and then the next day they disappeared. Wands left behind. No money lifted from their vaults. Nothing.”

“What the hell is going on?” wondered Hermione aloud.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Ron. “Folk around the office think it’s some sort of death cult pact. Load of bollocks, in my opinion. The disappearances are definitely connected to the murders, but this is the work of one man, I’m sure of it.”

“And what’s worse, he’s escalating,” Harry pointed out. “It won’t be long until he picks up another kid.”

Hermione hugged herself tightly, shivering from the rain and from the horror of the helpless situation they found themselves in. She thought hard for a few moments, processing all of the information that Harry and Ron had imparted to her. She looked between the two men.

“If you know it’s been the children of Death Eaters that have been targeted, why don’t you have the parents tailed?” she suggested. “That way you might catch the killer in the act.”

Harry gave a hollow laugh, “You think I haven’t suggested that already? I’ve been informed by my superiors that we don’t have the time, money or resources to conduct such a wide scale operation.”

“And you really believe that?” she sneered.

“Of course not,” he replied bitterly, his face screwed up in disgust. “We both know that there are plenty in the Auror Department and the Ministry who think we should leave the the Origami Killer to it - they consider what he’s doing to be a public service.”

“Cleaning out the gene pool,” Ron interjected. “Not my words, of course. I reprimanded that prick McLaggen for saying it within earshot of me.”

Hermione flashed Ron an appraising smile, “I wouldn’t expect any less from you, Ronald.” 

Ron smirked, pleased at the compliment and Harry rolled his eyes impatiently. It had been years since their teenage romance had fizzled out although the two remained firm friends, but Harry had little patience for their playful banter and flirting under the circumstances. They always chose to do it at the most inappropriate of times. Clearing his throat to get their attention, he continued.

“Obviously I can’t be seen following former Death Eaters around without just cause. I’d draw too much attention to myself apart from anything else,” he mused. He looked expectantly at Hermione and said, “You on the other hand, have developed a knack for blending into a crowd.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be a very good investigative reporter if I hadn’t,” she replied flatly.

“Exactly,” Harry agreed. “We know it’s only a matter of time before the killer takes another kid. Ron and I aren’t going to stop ‘til we find this fucker, but we need to be honest with ourselves - we’re probably not going to catch him before he takes another boy.”

“So what do you want me to do?” she asked curiously.

“We need you to be our eyes and ears on the ground,” said Harry. “Death Eaters are naturally suspicious of the authorities--”

“And for good reason,” Ron muttered darkly.

“They’ll be less inclined to have their guard up around you,” Harry continued. Hermione snorted.

“You forget that I’m a Muggleborn, Harry,” she replied drily. “They hate me. They’re about as likely to speak to me as they are to you.”

“They’ll have their guard down around you precisely because they think so little of you,” he countered. He knew it was a harsh truth, but Hermione didn’t appeared ruffled by what he said - she’d heard far worse before and knew that there was truth to Harry’s words. Harry sighed and continued, “I’m not asking you to conduct interviews or gather evidence. I just want you to keep us posted if you hear anything through the grapevine about where Nott and the others might be. Anything at all - rumours and conjecture, however outlandish - would be better than nothing at this point.”

“Because right now we have bugger all to go on,” Ron pointed out succinctly. 

Ron and Harry looked expectantly, almost desperately at her. Of course she’d agree to help. How could she refuse? They were her oldest friends, they counted on her support, even if she couldn’t necessarily help. It had always been this way. During their school days the challenges they faced had been insurmountable, but they had always succeeded when they had faced it together. This time though, Hermione couldn’t see a solution to this problem - eight children were dead, the killer was still at large, and they had absolutely no idea who it was or how to stop them.


	4. Father and Son

“How’s school?” asked Draco interestedly.

Scorpius shrugged, “S’fine.”

An awkward silence fell between them as they walked slowly up Diagon Alley. The day was overcast, threatening another downpour and the weather perfectly reflected the mood between father and son. Despite Draco’s best efforts to maintain a close relationship with Scorpius, he had felt increasingly distant from him. Scorpius had struggled not only with the loss of his brother but the break-up of his family, and although he’d never expressly said it, Draco was sure that his youngest son blamed him for everything that had happened (not that he was inclined to disagree with that assessment). He only wished he knew what to say or do to make Scorpius open up to him, but the more that he tried, the further he seemed to push him away. Draco nodded solemnly.

“Good, good…how’s your mother?” he asked. Scorpius looked hard at his father.

“She still cries a lot, but less so now that Mr. Shafiq started visiting.”

“Oh, right,” Draco muttered, his stomach twisting unpleasantly at the thought of his wife (ex-wife, he reminded himself gloomily) with another man. Even though it had been over a year since he and Astoria had divorced, his feelings for her hadn’t changed. But he knew that she would never forgive him for what happened to Cetus. Still, all he ever wanted for Astoria and his boys was to be happy, and if she was happier without him…

They came to a stop in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies shop window and Scorpius glanced at the display of broomsticks with little interest.

“You’ll be starting Hogwarts after the summer,” Draco ventured. “Would you like a new broomstick to take with you?”

“Mum’s already bought me one,” Scorpius informed him. Draco’s shoulders sagged. Shit. Now he knew how Astoria had felt when he’d bought Cetus’ without consulting her first. Scorpius gave him a weak smile, “It’s okay, Dad. Cetus was always more interested in flying than I ever was.”

“Oh,” Draco frowned, feeling confused. “I thought you loved flying.”

“I only pretended to be interested in it because you and Cetus liked it so much,” he admitted with a slight shrug. “I wanted you to talk to me the way you’d talk to Cetus about things. I asked to go to the matches with you both because I wanted to spend time with you. I know we haven’t been to another match since he died, but I’ll still go with you to one if you want me to.”

Draco felt guilt pulse through him like an exposed nerve. He knew even less about Scorpius than he realised, had spent so much time mourning the loss of one son he had become distant and neglectful of the other. He wanted to change that today. Now. He gave Scorpius’ shoulder a light squeeze.

“I want to do things that you’re interested in, Scorp. And I want to get you a gift that you actually want,” he explained gently. “So tell me, what would you really like for your birthday?”

Scorpius hesitated for a minute before admitting, “I’d really like...a book.”

Draco raised his eyebrows in surprise, “A book? That’s all?” Scorpius nodded.

“Is that okay?” he asked uncertainly. Draco smiled at him.

“If that is that you want, then that is what you’ll get.”

Scorpius’ face broke out into the first real smile Draco had seen in a long time. Merlin, he’d buy him all the books in the shop if it made him smile like that again. A few minutes later they were browsing the shelves of Flourish and Blotts, Scorpius pointing out which books that interested him. Draco had put his foot down and refused his son’s request for a copy of ‘Magick Moste Evile’.

“I seriously doubt Karl Jenkins’ father bought him a copy,” Draco argued when his son had protested. “And even if he did, I won’t buy it. And don’t bother asking your mother either, she’ll just tell you the same thing.”

As Scorpius skulked off to pick another book, Draco spent some time scanning the shelves. He suppressed a shiver when his eyes fell on the cover of a book entitled ‘The Slytherin Heir’ - he didn’t need to read about the Dark Lord to know what kind of monster he had been. Eventually Scorpius settled on buying ‘Madcap Magic for Wacky Warlocks’, ‘Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland’ and (much to Draco’s annoyance) a copy of the ‘The Boy Who Lived: The Life and Times of Harry Potter’. For some reason his son had developed a fascination with his childhood nemesis, but Draco was willing to indulge his son’s interests today, so long as he kept that particular book to his mother’s house. As Draco counted out the money for the books, Scorpius drew his father a curious look.

“Why did you buy two copies of each book?” he asked as they left the shop. Draco shrugged nonchalantly.

“I thought we might read them together,” he suggested. “That way even if you’re over at your mother’s, we’ll still be reading them together.”

Scorpius smiled broadly nodded in agreement. Taking the bag of books from Draco’s hand, he peered inside hungrily at the contents he was so keen to read. Draco checked his pocket watch and sighed - his time with Scorpius was almost up.

“We’ve got time to go for an ice cream before I need to take you to your mother’s,” he suggested.

“Yes please!” Scorpius replied eagerly, then without warning he darted down the busy street in the direction of the ice cream parlour. Draco weaved his way through the throngs of witches and wizards on the bustling street, struggling to keep pace with his son. Scorpius was so slight and fast Draco was having trouble keeping track of his movements. He has the makings of a great Seeker, he thought ruefully.

“Scorpius, wait for me,” he called, having to come to a complete standstill as an elderly witch wandered into his path. Losing patience he Apparated forward a few feet to catch up with his son. He turned on the spot, looking for him, but he couldn’t catch sight of him anywhere.

“Scorpius,” he shouted again, louder this time. There was no reply, and no sign of the distinctive white-blonde hair amongst the sea of people passing in all directions. Draco felt a slight stab of panic, but quickly suppressed it - Scorpius was probably waiting for him at the ice cream parlour. But when he reached the ice cream parlour, he wasn’t there. Draco’s heart began to race. They must have passed each other without realising. Scorpius was probably out on the street looking for him, he reasoned. Draco began to retrace his steps, searching the crowd and calling out for his son over and over again, a feeling of dread rising in him. People were drawing him curious looks, but nobody stopped to intervene.

“Scorpius!” he cried louder now, making no effort to hide the desperation in his voice. “Scorpius!”

Draco’s foot made contact with something discarded on the path and he saw a paper bag skim across the damp ground, the contents spilling out over the street - a collection of newly purchased books from Flourish and Blotts. Draco snatched up a copy of the ‘The Boy Who Lived’ and stared at it, momentarily paralysed by shock and confusion. He looked around desperately again and screamed Scorpius’ name again, but still his son did not appear. Panic gave way to outright fear as he pushed passed other shoppers, bellowing his son’s name over and over again, but to no avail. Scorpius wasn’t on Diagon Alley. He was gone.


	5. The Other Time

“Can you tell us what happened, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco clenched and unclenched his fists in his lap, trying to keep his fear and temper in check but failing miserably. He’d been sat in the Auror’s Office for hours now, being asked the same questions by Auror Creevey over and over again. It was like they were trying to trip him up, make him contradict himself, but Draco’s story had remained the same.

“We left Flourish and Blotts at around one-thirty, we were going to the ice cream parlour. He ran ahead of me and I lost sight of him. I tried to keep up with him but...he’d disappeared. I found his books on the ground...”

Draco’s voice trailed. Creevey nodded and scribbled something down in his notepad before asking, “If Scorpius went missing at one-thirty, why did it take you until three to report him missing?”

“Because I went looking for him!” he snapped impatiently. “I checked every shop, every alleyway, everywhere I thought Scorpius might go. I thought he couldn’t have gone far. But when I couldn’t find him, I came here.”

His shoulders sagged and he put his head in his hands. He was living his worst nightmare and these idiots were wasting time making him repeat himself. Creevey looked inquiringly at Draco.

“Did Scorpius have any particular difficulties, Mr. Malfoy?” he asked lightly, although his expression was tense. “Anything that might have caused him to run away?”

Draco’s hands slid from his face. He hesitated before admitting, “Not particularly. I mean...I suppose Scorpius is a sensitive child. And our relationship has been a little...difficult recently.”

“Problems at home with the wife?” Creevey inquired.

“Ex-wife,” Draco corrected him gruffly. “Scorpius has had a lot to deal with lately, but as I’ve already said, he wouldn’t have gone off anywhere without telling his mother or me.”

“What about your other son?” asked Creevey without looking up from his notes. “He died a while ago, yes?”

“Two years,” Draco confirmed shortly.

“You think perhaps that could have something to do with Scorpius running away?” Creevey ventured.

“He didn’t run away!” shouted Draco. The room fell silent and people stared at him, but Draco didn’t care. “Look, you’re wasting time arguing with me about this. Someone has taken him. He’s not lost, and he didn’t run away. Now I need you to do your fucking job and _ find him!” _

Creevey frowned, “What makes you so sure he was taken?”

“Because there’s a killer on the loose and he’s targeting boys my son’s age!” he snarled. “And given my  _ history _ …”

“Being a Death Eater?” asked Creevey coldly. Draco glowered at him.

“Ex-Death Eater. But yes, given who I am and what’s been happening...I mean, what am I supposed to think?”

“Mr. Malfoy, I highly doubt that the Origami Killer is involved,” Creevey assured him. “Your son is probably a runaway and will turn up in a couple hours. We’ll send out an Amber Alert and continue to search for Scorpius overnight. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred the kids turn up within a few hours.”

“And the other time?” asked Draco darkly. Creevey didn’t answer. Instead he patted Draco roughly on the shoulder.

“Go home,” he said gently. “We’ll contact you if we have any more questions.”

With that Creevey closed his notebook and walked away, leaving Draco reeling.

“Did they find him?” asked Astoria desperately.

Draco shook his head, “Nothing yet, but they’re going to keep looking through the night.”

They stood in the busy Atrium at the Ministry of Magic. Astoria had been asked to come in to the Aurors office to answer questions separately from Draco. Astoria clutched her purse so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

“Do they think it’s the Origami Killer?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Draco hesitated, “They say it’s unlikely...but they haven’t ruled out the possibility that it is.”

Astoria burst into tears and punched Draco hard on the chest, “How could you let this happen? How could you lose our boy? Wasn’t it enough losing Cetus?” Her words struck Draco like a physical blow and he let out a hard breath, trying to remain steady on his feet. Astoria’s eyes widened in horror at her own words.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just...I miss him so much, Draco. Don’t touch me, please...” Draco reached out to hug her but she recoiled like his mere touch caused her physical pain. She shook her head, “I’m already late for my meeting with them. Just...go home, Draco. You’ve done enough.” She turned and walked in the direction of the golden elevators, sobbing. Draco stood there at a loss at what to do. He never thought his life could get any worse after Cetus had died, and the universe had answered resoundingly with mocking laughter - it can always get worse.

  
  



	6. Siege at Malfoy Cottage

Of course once word got out that Scorpius Malfoy, son of an ex-Death Eater, had gone missing, the press quickly congregated outside of Draco’s small cottage in Hogsmeade. He peeked through the curtain at the large group of reporters standing sentry in his front garden, trampling all over his flowerbed, waiting patiently in the pouring rain for him to emerge. It was times like these that he lamented the loss of the Manor - it had been a literal fortress of solitude until it was lost in a fire during the War. Draco dropped the curtain and stood in the darkened living room, listening to the rain batter against the window, unsure of what to do with himself.

He had waited up all night for the Aurors to contact him, hoping that his gut instinct was wrong, praying that Scorpius would come home safe. But when Auror Creevey and his partner had arrived to speak to Draco that morning, he could tell by the grave expression on their faces that they had hadn’t found him.

His boy was missing. No, he’d been taken. Draco was sure of it. It was too much of a coincidence that Scorpius had disappeared, given everything that had been happening lately. Of course, Draco had been following the Origami Killer’s story in the papers closely. He had empathised with those who had fallen prey to the monster who targeted innocent children but he never considered the possibility that it would ever happen to him. But then again, nobody in these situation ever do.

Draco sighed and clenched his eyes shut, trying in a vain to stop despair and panic from overwhelming him, but he couldn’t stop himself imagining the worst possible outcomes of this situation. The Aurors were wasting time arguing that Scorpius was merely a runaway that he would turn up eventually. _Turn up like those other eight boys did_ , he thought darkly, immediately hating himself for even thinking such a thing, fear gripping him anew. He groaned in frustration. He was wasting time just sitting here, doing nothing. But what was to be done? Where could he go? Draco opened his eyes. Going anywhere else was better than staying here. But first he’d have to get the blood reporters off of his tail.

He snatched up his cloak and threw it over his shoulders. He tucked his wand into his pocket and scanned the room for anything else he needed. His eyes fell on a photograph on the mantelpiece; Astoria smiled as she held Cetus and Scorpius in her arms, planting wet kisses on the boy’s cheeks as they laughed and squirmed. Draco slid the photograph out of the frame and peered closely at it, and the constant dull ache that occupied his heart intensified. This was the last photograph he had taken of his family before Cetus had died. Before everything had gone to shit. Slipping the photograph into his breast pocket he scanned the room for anything else he needed, but couldn’t think of anything. The only thing he cared about had been stolen from him, and he’d be damned if he was going to sit there and do nothing about it.

***

Hermione stood with her hood up and head bowed, hidden unnoticed amongst the gaggle of reporters. She had spent the last few days tracking down and interviewing the mothers of the Origami Killer’s victims. She had little expectation that they would be as open with her as they had been with the Auror’s, and unfortunately her suspicions were proven correct; doors were slammed in her face time and time again, and she’d heard Mudblood more times in the past week than she had done in years.

But Hermione was not so easily deterred. She agreed with Ron and Harry that it was only a matter of time before another boy was taken, and sure enough, word spread that Scorpius Malfoy was missing, and was most likely the Origami Killer’s next intended victim.

One curious thing she had noticed during her investigation was the number of absentee fathers - each household she had visited, it had always been the mother who answered the door. When she had researched the whereabouts of each of the victims fathers, she found that each of them were absent from the child’s life - three of them were imprisoned for murder, two of them were living in another country, and of course there Zabini, Flint and Nott had each gone missing within days of their own son’s being kidnapped. Despite their unsavoury histories, she found it hard to believe that any of them would be capable of hurting their own children, particularly Malfoy - he hadn’t even been able to kill Dumbledore to save his own skin.

The fact that each father was now absent or missing seemed like too much of a coincidence to Hermione. She suspected that if she tailed Malfoy closely enough, the killer or killers would contact him. Of course, she could be standing out here freezing her arse off on a mere hunch for nothing. Her theory was a long shot, but it was all she had to go on. So here she stood, in the rain, waiting…

“Christ, how much longer is he going to stay in there?” grumbled Rita Skeeter under her breath, shaking rainwater off her sodden roll of parchment. Her photographer Bozo shrugged.

“The ex-wife hasn’t left her home, either,” he noted. “Hermes has been there since first thing this morning. He’ll keep us posted if anything happens--”

Bozo fell silent mid-sentence as the front door to the cottage creaked open. There was a sudden rush forward as reporters and photographers pushed parchment and camera lenses into Draco Malfoy’s stony face. Hermione allowed herself to be jostled from side to side, waiting for her chance...

Draco kept his head bowed and pushed passed the reporters without answering any of the questions being thrown at him. Hermione took her opportunity then, sidling passed Draco and deftly slipping an item into his cloak pocket. As she withdrew her hand from his pocket she glanced up at him and for the briefest of moments their eyes met. Hermione held her breath, taking in the sight of a man she hadn’t seen or thought of in years; deep-set lines of worry etched his normally handsome face, giving him the appearance of a man much older than one who was only in his mid-thirties. His grey eyes were puffy and red, his mouth set in a thin line; he looked like he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in years. For the first time in her life, Hermione felt a sharp pang of sympathy for Draco Malfoy.

Draco’s gaze slid over Hermione seemingly without noticing her and the moment passed. He continued to shove his way through the crowd and hurried towards the end of the street, the reporters following close behind. When he passed the boundary of the anti-apparition wards around his cottage, he Disapparated with a loud _crack_. The jabbering of the crowd died the moment Draco had disappeared and they began murmuring quietly amongst themselves, comparing notes as they gradually dispersed in all directions.

Hermione waited until the stragglers had left before turning towards the cottage, her wand drawn. She would follow up on Draco soon enough.


	7. Letter from No-One

When Draco Apparated to the entrance of The Leaky Cauldron, he was relieved to see that the street was deserted, although the rain was much heavier here than it had been in Hogsmeade. Pushing the door open, he kept his hood up and face covered as he beelined straight for the bar where Tom the Barman stood absentmindedly dusting a pint glass in the deserted pub. Draco slid a fistful of coins across the bar and murmured, “Room, please.”

Tom stared at the obscene amount of money offered to him for a moment before he gave a curt nod in understanding - Draco wasn’t the first customer to pay for discretion. Tom slid the coins off of the counter and into his pocket, then inclined his head for Draco to follow, “This way, sir.”

Tom ushered Draco to the floor above the pub and unlocked one of the unoccupied bedrooms for him. Handing him his room key he whispered, “If you need anything, just call on me, sir.” then turned without another word and descended the rickety staircase back to the pub. Draco entered the room and closed the door behind him, taking in his new, more peaceful surroundings. The room was modest in size and furnishings, but Draco took little notice of this. Instead he tossed his cloak on the bed and sat down at the small writing desk, enjoying the peace and quiet for a few moments. Coming here had been a spur of the moment decision and it was certainly better without the press on his heels. He could rely on Tom to turn away any reporters who might come looking for him here. But the relief of his solitude was short-lived, as now he had nothing to distract him from his own spirally thoughts - where was Scorpius? Was he hurt? If the Origami Killer was the one that took him, then he only had a few days to find him before...but how could he find him? What could he do? He didn’t know what to do...

In a vain effort to occupy himself, he dragged the cheap stationary towards him and began to scribble down all the different locations that he could check for Scorpius. He knew that his list writing probably wouldn’t help, but he was desperate just to do something - anything - to alleviate feeling so useless. He thought of every place he had ever taken Scorpius, every place he had ever been himself, even everywhere he remembered Astoria had ever mentioned visiting. He thought about contacting her, but he was the last person in the world she wanted to see right now. He couldn’t blame her for hating him. His hand paused over the parchment for a moment before he relented and added the locations of where the other boy’s bodies had been found. Draco doubted he would find anything there, but he would leave no stone unturned.

Draco lost track of time as he sat there, only the sound of the rain beating off of the window and the quill scratching on parchment permeating the otherwise silent room. He continued to write even when his wrist hurt, only ceasing when his brain felt numb and he could think of nothing else to write. He quickly scanned through the long list of locations before tucking the thick pile of parchment into his robes, pulled his cloak back on and marched out of the room. His search may be fruitless, but he had to do something - anything - to find his boy.

* * *

Tom the Barman ascended the stairs to the rooms above the pub, closely followed by Hermione.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you ‘round here, Ms. Granger,” he noted brightly. “How is Mr. Potter keeping these days?”

“Well enough,” she replied. “Always busy working. We’ll need to make time to come back here and see you, Tom.”

“That’d be lovely,” the old barman smiled, beckoning her to one of the vacant rooms. As Tom fumbled to open the lock, the door to the adjoining room opened and Draco Malfoy stepped out. A small frown creased his face as he noticed Hermione, but she kept her expression impassive, pretending she hadn’t seen him as she waited patiently for Tom to open the door for her. Draco slammed the bedroom door shut behind him and stalked wordlessly down the corridor, Hermione’s eyes trailing after him until he was out of sight.

The door unlocked with a loud click and Tom pushed it open for Hermione before handing her the key, “If you need anything, you know where to find me, love.”

“Thank you, Tom,” she gave the old wizard a warm smile then quietly closed the bedroom door behind her. She sighed and flopped onto the bed, exhausted. Searching Draco’s house had produced little more information than she already had: he lived alone, and although he didn’t work she knew that he survived on a sizable inheritance. The house was small, but clean and well-kept. Scorpius’ bedroom was similar to her own growing up - filled with a lot of books. Hermione hadn’t detected any traces of dark magic, nor noticed any books, potions or artefacts that looked out of the ordinary. It seemed like any normal wizarding home. She had noted the many photographs of his son’s about the house. Walking from room to room, no stranger would have guessed at the tragedy that had befallen its inhabitants. Neither had she found any indication that the killer had contacted Draco, so she decided the best course of action for now was to keep tailing him in case they did just that.

She had been surprised to bump into him in the corridor - she hadn’t intended on him seeing her - but he looked in too much of a hurry to have noticed her. She wanted to know where he was going, but exhaustion stopped her from chasing after him. She could feel the dark edges of unconsciousness surround her, and although she tried to fight it, she fell into a restless, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Draco spent hours searching, Apparating to different locations on his list - parks, shops, friend’s houses, Quidditch pitches, everywhere he could think of - until he was too exhausted to walk. The pale light of a new morning was dawning when he finally shuffled back into his room above The Leaky. Too exhausted to even take off his coat and shoes, he sank back into the chair by the writing desk and rested his head on the hard wooden surface. The bed would have been more comfortable, but Draco hadn’t earned simple comforts like a soft bed. Just as he closed his eyes he jumped as a loud knock wrapped his bedroom door.

Hurrying to the door he opened it a crack and peered out into the dimly lit corridor. Tom stood there with a package in his hands wrapped in brown paper .

“Delivery for ye, Mr. Malfoy,” said Tom holding the package out to him. “Just arrived by owl post.”

Draco groaned. Who the hell knew he was already here? And how? He relented and took the proffered package from the barman through the gap in the door, murmuring his thanks before retreating back into the room. He looked curiously at the innocuous package - there was no indication who the parcel was from or where it had come from. He gave it a light shake and something rattled inside of it. He roughly tore the packaging off of it to reveal a plain shoebox inside. Pulling the lid off he peered inside at the contents and felt his blood run cold.

There were a variety of objects inside the box, but his eyes were immediately drawn to four origami figures. The shoebox slipped from his hands and clattered to the ground, tipping the contents across the floor. Draco fell to his knees and quickly snatched up the contents and figurines, shoving them back into the box. He crawled back into the chair by the writing desk, his legs shaking too badly to remain standing. Draco stared at the box, paralysed by fear and confusion at what it meant. He hoped that it was someone’s idea of a sick joke, but he knew he wasn’t so lucky. He picked up a piece of parchment from inside the box and saw that there was a message written on it:

 _When the parents come home from church,_  
_All their children were gone._

 _They searched and called for them,_  
_They cried and begged,_  
_But it was all to no avail._

_The children have never been seen again._

He sat the parchment down on the table, unsure of what the message meant, but knew well enough that whatever it meant, it didn’t bode well for him or for Scorpius. He carefully removed the contents of the box out onto the table. Each origami figure was folded to look like a different animal - a salamander, a werewolf, a nundu, and an augurey. There was also a white envelope which had ‘Open Me’ scrawled on the front in the same handwriting as the riddle. Draco did as he was instructed and pulled open the envelope. He peered inside and burst into tears as he saw that it was a photograph of Scorpius. Tearing it from the envelope he stared at the moving picture of his son, mercifully alive but clearly in a great deal of distress. Scorpius was in a dark, dank well, raining beating down on his fair head as he stared wide-eyed with fright out of the picture, wordlessly pleaded for help. His hair and clothes were sodden as he stood knee-deep in rainwater, scrambling around the edges of the well trying to escape but finding none. Even if he had somehow been able to climb out of the well, there was a metal grate covering the top, making it impossible for him to escape.

Draco screamed and kicked the table in anger, unable to contain his fury and fear any longer. He jumped to his feet and marched around the room, scanning every inch of the photograph, trying to divine any clue as to where the picture had been taken but finding none. He felt like a wild animal trapped in a cage: his son was in danger and he didn’t know how to save him. He hurried back to the table and snatched up the parchment, turning it over to see if there was any more information on the back, but there was none. Turning back to read the message at the front, Draco’s stomach lurched as he saw that the message had disappeared. Instead, new writing began to appear on the parchment as though written by an invisible hand:

_How far will you go to save someone you love?_

Draco stared at the message, momentarily dumbfounded at what was happening then realised that the parchment must be enchanted with the Protean charm in order for the messenger to communicate with him. Draco wondered if they had enchanted the parchment so that he could reply to the message. Snatching up a quill he took his chance and quickly scrawled,  _Are you the Origami Killer?_

He held his breath as he waited, then let out a short sigh of relief as the letters began to melt into the paper and the message disappear. So the parchment was indeed charmed in order to conduct a two-way conversation. His momentary elation was eclipsed by his dread as the next words that appeared confirmed his worst fears,  _Yes, I am._

Momentarily frozen with panic at this revelation, Draco didn't know what to write, afraid to write the wrong thing. He began scribbling again,  _I’ll give you anything you want. I have gold. Lots of it._

The letters melted and vanished into the paper again and Draco waited, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. After an excruciatingly long moment, a new message began to form on the parchment,  _I don’t want your money._

Another stab of panic struck Draco then. Kidnappers who couldn’t be bargained with money usually wanted something of a much higher price in return, Merlin knows what this monster wanted from him. But he knew that whatever was asked of him, he would give it without question. He scribbled a short response, _What do you want?_

After a few moments, the mysterious corespondee replied, _I want you to prove yourself._

Draco wrote back, _How? Tell me how and I’ll do it._

There was a long pause before the next message appeared:

_Each origami figure contains a trial. Each trial is an opportunity for you to prove your love for your son. To secure your son’s salvation, you must successfully pass the four trials I have set you._

_If you choose to complete the tasks, and are successful in doing so, I will tell you where your son is._

_I think it goes without saying that if you contact the Aurors about this, then you will never hear from me again and your son will die._

_So, are you game?_

Trials? What the hell did that mean? Draco’s gaze fell onto the photograph of his son again. There was no question that he would do what was necessary: whatever this bastard was going to throw at him, he was ready and willing to take it. Anything to get his boy back home. Resolute in his decision, he wrote back:

_Yes. Just tell me what to do._


	8. The Salamander

Draco picked up the origami figure shaped like a salamander and turned it over in his trembling fingers. The messenger had informed him that concealed within each figure was an address that would take Draco to each trial. The address to the first trial was to be found within the salamander.

You have only days, perhaps hours to complete your trials successfully and secure the safe return of your son, the parchment had read. Move with speed and surety. A moment’s hesitation could mean his end. I will contact you again once you have completed the first trial.

Draco had written back, begging for more information, asking why they were doing this to him, but they did not reply. He roughly wiped away his tears with the back of his hand and unfolded the salamander figure. The Aurors had been useless so far and he wasn’t going to take the killer’s threats lightly - he believed that if he contacted the Ministry and the killer found out, they would disappear like a whisper in the wind. It wasn’t worth the risk. Draco knew now that he had no choice but to play the killer’s twisted game: this was his only chance to save Scorpius.

He flattened the creased paper on the table and felt his stomach clench at the all-too familiar address scrawled onto the paper: _Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire._

Of course it had to be the bloody Manor. Without a moment’s hesitation he stuffed the piece of paper into his pocket, grabbed his wand and strode out of the room. The quicker he got this done, the sooner he would have his son back.

Draco hurried out of the pub into a nearby alleyway, checking over his shoulder that nobody had seen him before Apparating to the entrance of the ruined Manor he had once called home. Dark clouds hung low overhead, promising another downpour. More rain meant there was less time to find Scorpius. He strode towards the Manor’s entrance, his feet slipped and splashed in puddles as he took in his eerily familiar surroundings. He had been born in the Manor, spent most of his life here before the fire had torn through it, leaving it uninhabitable. Time and neglect had left the once magnificent stately home in ruins, the neatly trimmed gardens were wild now, while the house itself was little more than a burnt husk, left to decompose over the years.

He marched up the flagstone steps towards the front entrance where the large oak doors stood ajar. Before Draco entered the derelict building, something bright and shiny caught his eye. On the uppermost step sat a small porcelain figurine shaped like a salamander. Draco’s heart began to thump painfully in his chest. The killer had been here, at his ancestral home. To know that bastard had sullied the place with their presence was just further salt in the wounds as far as Draco was concerned.

He picked up the porcelain figure in order to inspect it more closely and heard something rattle inside of it. Turning the figurine over in his hand, he scrutinised it from all angles. There was only one way to access whatever was concealed within it. He smashed the figurine on the stone steps and it shattered, pieces of white porcelain bouncing away in all directions. Draco immediately spotted a key amongst the shards and snatched it off of the ground. It was small in size, gold with a fleur-de-lis symbol stamped onto the bow. He immediately recognised it as a key to the Manor’s Drawing Room. Draco wondered how the killer had come to acquire such an item, but he supposed it wouldn’t be so difficult - the Manor and its contents had been abandoned on the night of the fire. It would have been easy for anyone to enter in the aftermath and pilfer what hadn’t been swallowed up by flames.

Pocketing the key, Draco clutched his wand tightly in his hand, pushed open the dilapidated door and slipped into the Entrance Hall. He walked slowly through the darkened entrance before veering left in the direction of the Drawing Room, taking care to make as little noise as possible as he walked further into the heart of the ruined Manor. The only thing that he could hear was his footsteps reverberating through the lofty corridors and the occasional fluttering of a pigeon’s wings echoing from one of the distant rooms. The stench of rotten, burnt wood filled his nostrils as he took in the sorry sight before him - the paintings that had once lined the hallways were gone (whether burned or stolen, he didn’t know), and the only source of light emanated from the tip of his wand.

Draco paused as he reached the Drawing Room. Of course, it had crossed his mind that this was a trap - that the killer was waiting within just to finish him off. But despite his trepidation, Draco unlocked the door and stepped inside, prepared to face whatever the killer had in store for him.

The Drawing Room was in a poor state, much like the rest of the building; the grand marble fireplace was dark and cold, only slivers of dull sunlight breaking through gaps in the boarded up windows. The room, once sumptuously decorated with countless books, soft furnishings and expensive Moroccan rugs, now lay bare. All except for a table that sat in the centre of the room. Draco approached cautiously, his wand clenched tightly in his shaking hand. As he came to a stop a foot away from the table, he saw that it had been arranged with a curious assortment of items - a blank piece of parchment (no doubt Proteaned like the paper back at the Leaky Cauldron), a gold goblet, an electric blue eyeball not unlike the one that his late professor, the Auror Mad-Eye Moody, had worn, and a silver dagger.

On any normal day, the eyeball would have been the most disconcerting item on the table, but the sight of the knife sent an unpleasant shiver up Draco’s spine. Not simply because daggers did not bode well, but because he recognised the insignia branded on its hilt - _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_. The Malfoy family motto - this knife belonged to his father’s family. Had the killer found this in their search of the Manor’s ruins, too?

He was too afraid to touch anything on the table, afraid of making a fatal mistake. What the hell was all of this? As though reading his mind, letters began to form on the parchment in reply: _Welcome home, Draco._

“Fuck you,” he hissed under his breath. The ink quickly evaporated and a new message appeared:

_Are you willing to make a sacrifice to save your son?_

_You have five minutes to cut off your ring finger. If you succeed, you will get your reward._

“Are you fucking serious?” he cried, incensed. They couldn’t really mean for him to mutilate himself. More writing appeared on the parchment:

_Deadly serious. When you have cut off your finger, place it in the golden goblet and you shall be one step closer to saving your son. I expect that fine ring of yours to still be attached. Tick tock, Draco._

Draco looked at his father’s ring - the only keepsake that remained of the man he had grown up idolising - losing that was almost as difficult as the loss of one of his digits. His eyes fell onto the knife again and he understood - he was to use his own family’s dagger to make the sacrifice. _How symbolic_ , he thought viciously. Obviously the killer was watching him through the enchanted eye to make sure Draco held up his end of the bargain.

He snatched up the dagger and lay his left hand flat on the table, pressing the blade across the soft, pale flesh at the base of his ring finger. Draco’s hand was shaking so badly he could barely hold the knife straight and he was in danger of chopping off more than his ring finger. He hesitated then groaned in frustration, the dagger falling limp in his hand. He was afraid of the pain, afraid that he wouldn’t be able to do it. But if he didn’t do it…

The image of Scorpius trapped in the well, more afraid than Draco was now, pushed itself to the forefront of his mind. Draco clung desperately to the image and stared at it unblinkingly - he was more afraid of losing his son than a part of himself. He picked up the dagger and pressed the blade into his flesh, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst through his chest. His breathes were coming out in short, sharp bursts as he prepared himself, never allowing his mind to stray from that image of his son in the well - it gave him the courage to force the blade down through his finger in one, swift movement.

Draco’s screams echoed through the Manor as he collapsed onto the floor in shock, the dagger clattering to the floor by his side as blood spurted profusely from the wound. Draco instinctively wrapped the sleeve of his robes around the wound in an attempt to stem the bleeding, but it did little good. Overwhelmed with pain and nausea, Draco wretched and was sick on the sodden floor, tears streaming down his face as he whimpered and clung to his mutilated hand.

Scorpius flashed through Draco’s mind again and he clenched his eyes shut, concentrating on the image to help him focus on steadying his breathing. He needed to compose himself - the task wasn’t yet complete, and there was a time limit to consider. Draco tried to get back onto his feet, but his legs shook so badly he only managed to get up onto his knees. Clinging to the table for support he picked up the severed finger - the Malfoy ring still attached - in his trembling, uninjured hand and dropped it into the goblet.

The goblet immediately disappeared and Draco gasped - the goblet must have been a portkey. After a few moments, the goblet reappeared with a piece of stiff paper sticking out of it. Draco snatched for the paper and the goblet fell onto its side and toppled off of the table, clattering onto the floor and rolling out of sight. Draco didn’t pay it any mind, however, his gaze fixed on the piece of paper the killer had sent him. His ‘reward’ was a new, more recent photograph of Scorpius. He was still in the well, and the rainwater was now up to his waist.

With great effort, Draco forced himself to stand. His injured hand throbbed painfully, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the photograph. The relief at knowing his son was still alive overruled any discomfort he felt. It meant that there was still a chance to save him. He pocketed the photograph next to the one of his family and saw that the killer had left him a new message on the parchment:

_Congratulations, Draco, you were just in time. You have successfully passed the first trial. A word of caution - the trials will only get more challenging as you progress, so you must prepare yourself for the next one. Take the eye with you - you’re going to need it._

Draco slipped the blue eyeball into his pocket, then picked up the knife and slipped it into his robes. He’d just had to forfeit his ring and his finger for the bastard, he felt compelled to take something back. With his mind singularly focused on the task at hand, he turned on his heel and strode out of the Manor, content to never return.


	9. Galleon

Hermione had woken with a fright when she heard shouts and loud banging coming from Draco’s room. Instinctually she had snatched up her wand and taken two steps towards the bedroom door before she had paused, listening closely to the muffled sounds of movement next door. At first she had thought Draco was fighting with someone, but all had fallen silent as quickly as the commotion had erupted. Hermione pressed her ear against the thin bedroom wall, straining to hear what was going on. To her surprise, she thought she heard Draco crying. After a few moments, Draco’s bedroom door slammed shut and she heard his heavy footsteps stalking down the corridor, growing quieter with each step.

She peered out of her bedroom window and spotted a flash of white-blonde hair exiting the pub and quickly turning left down an alleyway out of sight. Where was he going this time? Hermione popped her head out of the bedroom door to check the corridor was clear, intent on exploring Draco’s room while he was out, but paused when she saw the cleaner with her trolley approach. Hermione withdrew back into her room - she would have to wait until the coast was clear.

After she was certain the cleaner had finished her rounds, Hermione took her chance. Slipping out of her bedroom, she tapped the lock on Draco’s door she murmured, _“Alohamora”_ , wincing at how loudly the door unlocked before hurrying inside. She didn’t know how much time she had before Draco would return, so she moved quickly through the room, heading straight for the writing desk pushed against the far wall.

She frowned at the mess of papers left on the desk - lengths of parchment with lists of random locations scribbled frantically upon them, and most disturbingly, three origami figurines. Hermione picked up one of the figurines and turned it over in her hand, feeling uneasy. She doubted Draco Malfoy had taken up origami in the last few days, and it was surely no coincidence that she found them in his room…

_“Petrificus Totalus!”_

Hermione barely had time to gasp as her body was instantly paralysed. As though in slow motion, she toppled backwards with a floor-shaking crash at Draco’s feet. He glowered down at her, his wand still pointed at her immobile form. He kicked the door shut behind him and knelt down beside her.

“Granger,” he snarled. “I should have known you three would have something to do with this. _Incarcerous.”_

Ropes shot out of the end of Draco’s rope and wrapped themselves around Hermione’s hands and feet. Draco rummaged through her pockets, pulling out her wand and tossing it onto the bed. Hermione’s heart thumped painfully in her chest - even if she did escape the Full Body-Bind curse, without her wand she now had no chance of escape. Draco considered her closely for a few moments before speaking again.

“I knew it was no coincidence when I saw you outside my house yesterday,” he began, his voice low and angry. “I thought you were there to try and get a photograph or a quote like the rest of those vultures. They’ve got no interest in finding my son. They just want to sell their bloody newspapers...” Draco’s face was screwed up in an ugly scowl, remembering with a fresh surge of anger the insulting questions that had been hurled at him, suggesting that he was somehow involved in his own son’s disappearance. It had taken every fiber of his being not to hurl hexes in their faces at that suggestion. He fixed Hermione’s terrified face with a stony glare, “But when I saw you out in the corridor earlier, I knew that you must have followed me here. I want to know why.”

Draco flicked his wand and Hermione found that she could move again, albeit very little considering she still had the restraints in place. Draco brought his face closer to hers and hissed, “I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them truthfully, Granger. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

Thinking fast, Hermione nodded mutely, her eyes darting between his irate grey eyes and the bedroom door. If she screamed loud enough, maybe someone would hear her…

Draco seemed to be thinking the same thing. He pointed his wand over his shoulder and muttered, _“Silencio”._ Hermione’s shoulders sagged against her tight restraints, defeated. There was no means of escape, now.

Draco winced and tucked his free hand under his armpit. Hermione was momentarily distracted as she noticed his left hand was wrapped in bandages sodden with fresh blood. How the hell had that happened? Hermione was pulled from her curious musings as Draco’s low voice grabbed her attention.

“Why are you following me?” he asked. Hermione huffed as she struggled against her restraints, trying to sit up. She glared up at Draco as he watched her roll helplessly onto her side.

“I’m trying to find your son,” she replied shortly. Draco frowned at her.

“You’re following me to try and find my son?” he asked, confused. “You...you think I know where my son is?”

“I don’t know. Do you?” she challenged.

Draco snarled and thrust the tip of his wand under her chin, “Is that what this is? You broke in here trying to find proof that I kidnapped Scorpius? Do you really think so little of me, that I’d hurt my own son?”

“I don’t think much of you if I’m honest, Malfoy,” she quipped. “And you’re doing a poor job of convincing me of your innocence by having me tied up on your bedroom floor.”

“You’re the one who broke in here!” he hissed.

Fair point, she relented, though she kept that to herself and instead glared defiantly back at Draco.

“In truth, I don’t really care what you think about me,” he sneered. “Think me innocent or guilty, it makes no difference to me. All I’m interested in is bringing my son home. And believe me, I’ll do anything to get him back, that includes hurting you if need be. Understood?”

Hermione looked up into Draco’s face, weighing up her limited options. Draco certainly had the advantage over her, but apart from restraining her, he hadn’t yet hurt her. While his expression was one of anger, deep-seated fear lingered behind his eyes. Hermione knew from experience that the only thing more dangerous than someone who was angry was a person who was afraid with nothing to lose. And Draco was a man on the brink of losing everything. She fixed him with a hard stare and offered, “Okay, I’ll answer all of your questions. But only if you untie me.”

“Not happening,” he growled.

“You have the advantage,” Hermione pointed out. “You have my wand, I’m not going to be able to do much without it. Just untie me and I’ll tell you what I know.”

Draco hesitated. The tantalising possibility of information about his son was too much of an opportunity to pass up. He flicked his wand and the ropes dissolved into nothing. He sat back, casually resting his arms on his knees, but the death-vice grip he had on his wand betrayed how close he was to his breaking point. Hermione slowly sat up into a sitting position, the two old school rivals facing one another as a tense silence grew between them. Her eyes were instinctively drawn to Draco’s injured hand again, but before she could even consider what had caused such an injury, Draco spoke again.

“You’ve been following me,” he stated flatly. “Why?”

Hermione paused before answering, unsure of how honest she ought to be. Harry had asked her to be discreet, but then he’d also warned her not to get caught, more fool her. Deciding that honesty was the best policy, she explained to Draco about Harry and Ron’s investigation into the killings, and how little they had progressed in catching the Origami Killer. She told him that the pair of friends had asked for her to put her investigative skills to good use and gather any and all information that she could to help with the case. This caught Draco’s attention, but his hopeful expression was replaced with one of disappointment as she admitted that she had failed in learning any more than the Aurors already knew.

“We all knew that it was only a matter of time before another boy went missing,” she explained. “Given the disappearances of Nott, Flint and Zabini, I took an educated guess that the killer must be communicating with the fathers in some way, although none of the mothers I spoke to admitted to that. I don’t think they put much stock in my theory.”

What little colour Draco had in his face drained away at those words.

“Theo, Marcus and Blaise are missing, too?” he asked, looking shocked and confused. Hermione nodded.

“It’s not been made public, but yes, they all went missing just after their sons did,” she confirmed. “Nobody has seen hide nor hair of them since, but I suspect that the timing of their disappearance is no mere coincidence. I decided that whenever - and whoever - went missing next, I’d tail the father in the hopes of...I don’t know what, exactly. In the hopes of finding out what the hell is going on. Unfortunately, it happened to be you. So, am I right? Has the killer contacted you?”

Draco lowered his gaze and said nothing for a long time before finally giving a curt nod. Hermione let out a long sigh, a mingled sense of satisfaction and disappointment that she had been proven right again.

“What did they say?” she asked curiously. Draco’s head snapped up and he glared at her.

“I’m the one asking questions here, not you,” he spat before continuing. “I didn’t tell anyone where I was going after I left the cottage, I was careful not to be followed. How did you find me here so quickly?”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably before admitting, “I put a tracer on you.”

Draco gaped at her, “Are you serious? You need Ministry approval for something like that. This is Potter’s doing, isn’t it?”

“Harry had nothing to do with it,” she cut in. “And technically I didn’t put the tracer on you - Harry would have a hard time getting permission to do that, let alone me. I put the tracer on a coin. Check your cloak pocket, you should find a Galleon in there…”

Draco rummaged through his pockets then paused as his hand clenched around the cold metal coin, so deep in the side pocket of his cloak that if he hadn’t been looking for it, he’d never had noticed it was there. He pulled it out and glared at the offending item.

“Unbelievable,” he grumbled, throwing the coin angrily across the room. “You lot never change, do you? Forever poking your nose into other people’s business where you’re not wanted. Of course, knowing what you’re like I shouldn’t be surprised that you’d choose to ingratiate yourself in a cause that isn’t yours to fight.”

“You might not want my help, but by the looks of it, you need it,” she snapped, nodding at his bandaged hand. Draco unconsciously hid his hand in his lap. Hermione rolled her eyes and against her better judgement, she asked, “Do you want me to take a look at it?”

“I’m fine,” he lied. Hermione gave him a withering look.

“You’re bleeding all over the floor, clearly you’re not fine. Stop being so bloody stubborn Malfoy, let me look at it.”

Draco hesitated a moment before relenting and holding out his injured hand. He winced as Hermione peeled off the blood-encrusted bandages, inspecting the damage closely.

“Who did this to you?” she asked curiously.

“I did,” he admitted. Hermione drew him a horrified look.

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me _why_ you mutilated yourself like this?”

“Can you fix this or not?” he deflected, his face screwed up in pain. Hermione pursed her lips and looked at the wound, still oozing fresh blood at the stump where his finger should have been attached.

“I suppose you tried healing it?” she asked matter-of-factly.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, jerking a little in surprise at the sudden contact as Hermione gently turned his hand over in her own. Her hands were surprisingly warm and soft. “I tried dittany and murtlap essence, but neither of them helped.”

“Must have been a pretty sharp blade to cut through the bone so easily,” she mused. “Probably enchanted with dark magic to prevent wounds from healing.”

Draco groaned. He shouldn’t have been surprised considering it was a Malfoy family heirloom. “What should I do?” he asked desperately. Hermione grimaced.

“I doubt even Skele-Gro would fix this…I suppose going to St. Mungo’s isn’t an option?”

“No,” Draco cut in. “I can’t do that.”

They’d ask too many questions and Draco didn’t have the luxury of time. Hermione nodded in understanding, “Then I think your best bet is to cauterise the wound and hopefully that will stem the flow of blood.”

“Seriously?” he asked, horrified. She gave him a sympathetic look.

“I can patch up wounds, but I can’t fix them like a skilled Healer can. If you go to hospital to get it treated, I’m afraid cauterising the wound is your only option,” she concluded gravely.

Draco glared at her, trying to gauge whether she really was serious. Hermione stared back at him expectantly. Evidently she was serious. Draco snarled and pulled his hand back from Hermione’s grasp, “Fine. Let’s do it your way.” He drew his wand and pressed the tip to the bloody stump of his ring finger. Hermione instinctively reached out.

“I can help you if you want--” she offered, but Draco pulled away from her.

“I can manage myself, thanks,” he protested. Taking a few breaths to compose himself first, he grunted, _“Incendio”_ , yelping and quickly snatching his hand away as a hot flare burst from his wand and sealed the wound. Hermione covered her mouth and stared wide-eyed with morbid fascination as the skin sizzled and blackened. Draco muttered, _“Ferula”_ , and fresh bandages shot out of the end of his wand and wrapped themselves around his outstretched hand. His hand still throbbed painfully, but the bleeding had finally stopped.

“That’ll have to do,” he grumbled, inspecting his handiwork.

“Did you really do that to yourself? Or was it the Origami Killer?” she asked. Taking Draco’s silence as a confirmation, she sighed and said more softly, “Malfoy, if the killer’s contacted you, you need to tell the Aurors.”

Draco drew her an incredulous look, “You don’t think I would if I could? They’ve already warned me that if I contact the Auror’s, then my son’s as good as dead. Not that the Ministry’s been any bloody help, they tried to brush Scorpius off as a runaway. Anyone who knows Scorpius knows that he wouldn’t do that. The Aurors only took an interest after the press got wind of his disappearance. Not that there’s much interest in finding the ‘offspring of a Death Eater’, is there? No, I’m better dealing with this myself. At least this way, there’s a chance of getting him back.” Draco rubbed his tired eyes and muttered, “Merlin, I shouldn’t even be telling you this.”

“Then why are you?” she asked curiously.

“Because I have no-one else,” he admitted. “Astoria already hated me for what happened to Cetus. Now this...And it’s not like I had many confidentes to confide in before this happened. It may come as a surprise to you Granger, but most people tend not to want to associate themselves with Death Eaters, even after all of these years.”

Draco couldn’t help himself. Spilling his guts to Granger, in his youth he could think of nothing more humiliating than admit his own shortcomings to anyone, especially someone like her. But age and experience had taught him that there were far greater humiliations to bear than talking candidly with the Muggleborn witch he’d loathed and secretly envied during his school days. And he was so lonely, so desperate for another person to understand what he was going through, so determined to get his son back, that he was willing to debase himself even further, even if that meant talking to Granger, even if she hated and pitied him. Anything to bring Scorpius home.

“You’re right about the Ministry,” Hermione agreed. “They’re more interested in covering their own arse than finding and saving those boys. But Harry isn’t amongst them. Really Malfoy, he isn’t.” Draco rolled his eyes at those words, but Hermione persisted. “I know you’ve never gotten along--”

“Bit of an understatement, Granger.”

“Well, you should know him well enough to know he’s doing everything he can to find your son,” she said pointedly. “If you could just talk to him, he would be able to help you--”

“No, he can’t,” replied Draco shortly. “This is something The Chosen One cannot fix. I am Scorpius’ father, it’s my responsibility to find him.”

“But you don’t have to do it alone, Draco,” she implored. “Harry can help you if you just let him!”

“NO!” he shouted. “I won’t put Scorpius’ life at more risk. I cannot - I will not - put Scorpius’ life at greater risk by asking for Potter’s help.”

“Are you unwilling to accept any help, or just from Harry?” she challenged.

“This isn’t about pride, Granger,” he scoffed. “I’m long passed giving a shit about that. Not all of us can save the world, you know. I don’t care about being a hero, I just want my son to be safe. And I can’t even do that much - one dead and the other missing - I’m hardly Father of the fucking Year! I just...I need to be the one to do this. It’s my fault Scorpius is in this mess, so I need to be the one to fix it.”

Draco sounded pained as he said the last few words. Draco lowered his eyes, unable to meet Hermione’s sympathetic gaze. He rather she looked at him with hatred or disgust, he didn’t deserve her sympathy.

“Don’t you get it? What happened to Scorpius, and to Cetus - my boys have suffered and died because of my mistakes. So, it’s my responsibility to put things right.”

“I read about what happened your son, Cetus,” said Hermione quietly. “I’m so sorry...”

Draco shrugged, his face a mask of indifference, but his eyes were watery, “You’ve nothing to apologise for, it wasn’t you who killed my son. If anyone is to blame, it’s me.”

Hermione frowned, “But wasn’t Dolohov the one who attacked you?”

Draco sniffed, “He was aiming for me, but Cetus got caught in the firing line. If he hadn’t been standing so close to me, I’d have died, but he would have lived. There’s no question as to which outcome I would have prefered. But, that’s not how life works out, is it?”

Draco unconsciously rubbed his chest as though his heart were aching with tangible pain at the mere memory of what had happened. Against her better judgement, Hermione couldn’t help but feel a wave of sympathy for the man.

“Malfoy,” she began carefully. “I understand that you feel responsible for what happened to Cetus, and for what’s happened to Scorpius, too. But you don’t have to face this alone. I want to help.”

Draco drew her a suspicious look, “Why would you want to help me?”

“Not you,” she corrected him. “Help your son.”

“Why do you care what happens to him?” he asked. Hermione shrugged.

“Maybe some of the hero complex you so often accuse Harry off has rubbed off on me,” she joked. “And it’s like you said; I like to poke my nose in other people’s business, offer my help even when it’s not wanted.”

“Typical Gryffindor,” he sneered.

“Through and through,” she acknowledged. “We both know the Ministry’s dragging its feet over this, and as much Harry wants to help, there’s only so much he can do - that’s why he asked me to help. I’m not an Auror, I’m not obliged to follow the same rules as they are. I can help you in ways that they can’t. I can keep a secret, for one thing. I won’t tell Harry about this conversation. Not if you think it’ll do more harm than good.

“Just think about Scorpius, Malfoy. He’s just a boy and you’re only one man. I can help you, if you let me.”

A tense silence stretched out between them, Draco’s expression a storm of emotion as he contemplated Hermione’s offer. There was no denying how brilliant Hermione Granger was, but however tempting her offer of help was, there was no way he was going to put his son’s life any more at risk. Finally, he shook his head.

“Nobody can help me,” he replied roughly. “Not even you and Boy Wonder. Not this time.”

Draco rose to his feet and scooped Hermione’s wand off of the bed. He turned it over in his hand a couple of times, seemingly undecided as to whether or not he should return it. After a few moments he shot her a sharp look before tossing the wand at her. Shocked, Hermione caught it in mid-air.

“I appreciate your help tonight, Granger - and your discretion - but in future, mind your own business,” he said, opening the bedroom door. He inclined his head for her to leave, “If you try to break in here again, I’ll call the Aurors and have you arrested.”

Hermione slowly got to her feet and shuffled out of the room. As she crossed the threshold Draco warned, “You know what happens to my son if you tell anyone about this conversation?”

“I won’t say a word,” she promised, and she meant it. However torn she felt about keeping secrets from Harry, she wasn’t going to put Scorpius Malfoy’s life in greater jeopardy. Draco gave her a curt nod and slammed the door shut in her face.

Hermione stood staring at the door dazedly, unsure of what to do next. Well, at least she had one theory confirmed - the killer was in fact communicating with the victim’s fathers. However, the question remained - what was the killer saying to them? And more importantly, where were they now? Hermione _Accio_ ’d her cloak and headed for the stairs. Perhaps another conversation with Pansy Parkinson was in order…


	10. The Werewolf

Draco closed the door in Hermione’s face and let out a long sigh, banging his head against the door in frustration. Although he had been furious to discover Hermione Granger of all people on his tail, he trusted her misplaced notion of keeping promises and believed her when she swore that she wouldn’t say anything to Potter about their little talk. He had briefly considered Obliviating her so that she would forget their conversation, but Draco would hardly be worthy of the name Malfoy if he weren’t one to hedge his bets.

Draco looked at his bandaged hand again. In the immediate aftermath of the first trial, he realised that there was little to no chance of him getting out of this alive: with three more trials to complete, and the promise that each would be more difficult in turn, he suspected that he was ultimately being set up to fail. Though he was certain he might die in his pursuit, he didn’t want to be resigned to the same unknown fate as Theo, Blaise and Marcus. If Granger knew he was in touch with the killer, and he suddenly disappeared without a trace, she would surely search his room for clues. Well, Draco would gladly leave them for her.

He sat back at the writing desk and began scribbling a letter to her, detailing everything that had happened to him - the day Scorpius had disappeared, the contents of the mysterious box, the trials the killer had set for him to complete, everything - in the hopes that she may succeed where he would surely fail. Stuffing the letter into an envelope he scribbled ‘Granger’ on the front and placed it carefully by the bedside table so she would find it easily if he didn’t come back from the next trial.

Despite being exhausted and in pain, Draco dragged the enchanted parchment towards him and wrote simply, What now? He only had to wait a few moments before the next message appeared:

_Are you prepared to kill someone to save your son?_

Draco felt his stomach drop at those words. It was one thing to hurt himself, but kill another person? He thought back to that fateful night many years ago atop the Astronomy Tower. He couldn’t even kill Albus Dumbledore to save his parents, to save himself. Would he be able to kill another person to save his son? Uncertain if he would be able to go through with this, he wrote back, _Yes_.

His message dissolved into the paper and the the reply appeared on the parchment:

_We shall see about that._  
_The address of the man you must kill is concealed within the werewolf figurine. Use the eye to prove that you have completed the trial. A messenger will be waiting with your reward._  
_I’d get a move on if I were you, the rain is really pouring now._

Draco glanced up out of the window and saw the rain was indeed pouring, so heavy now that the view of street below was obscured. If it kept up like this, it wouldn’t be long before the well filled up with water, and it would be too late for Scorpius. Draco unfolded the werewolf figure and read an unfamiliar address:

_79b Grafton House, Mile End, London._  
_Kill him. Rendezvous with the messenger. Get your reward._

There was no indication as to who the messenger would be, but he supposed they would reveal themselves to him when the time came. Stuffing the paper into his pocket he rose to his feet and made to leave before pausing, the corner of his eye catching the glint of gold shining on the floor. Draco snatched up Granger’s traceable Galleon and slipped it back into his pocket. If he was going to die, this way she might be able to find his body.


	11. Reunion

Hermione knocked on the front door to the Nott residence and waited nervously for a response. A few seconds passed before the door creaked open and a puffy, bloodshot eye glared at her through the small gap.

“Granger,” said Pansy thickly. “I’ve already told you, you’re not welcome around here. Piss off before I call the Aurors.”

Pansy made to close the door but Hermione pushed it open a little and implored, “You need to hear me out, Pansy. It’s about Theo and Adrian.”

“My son is dead and my good-for-nothing husband abandoned me,” she spat. “Whatever you’ve got to say about them is of no use to me now.”

“You know Draco’s son is missing now, too,” Hermione pressed on, struggling against Pansy who was trying to close the door in her face. “They think the Origami Killer has taken him, too.”

“Draco’s problems are no concern of mine,” said Pansy roughly.

“You and Draco used to be friends,” Hermione pointed out.

“We were,” Pansy corrected her. “That was a long time ago.”

“So you would resign another father and son to the same fate as your own?” challenged Hermione. Pansy opened the door fully then and pointed her wand at Hermione’s face, her expression furious.

“Get off of my property, you Mudblood bitch,” she growled, jabbing the tip of her wand into Hermione’s cheek. “Before I do some real damage to that pretty face of yours.”

Hermione held up her hands in surrender, but she didn’t move.

“I don’t think Theo abandoned you, Pansy,” Hermione chanced. “I think the killer contacted him in the days after your son went missing. And I don’t think he’s the first, either.”

Pansy blinked a couple of times before slowly removing the tip of her wand from Hermione’s cheek, but she eyed her with suspicion, “What are you talking about?”

To Hermione’s immense surprise, she found herself sitting in Pansy’s kitchen a few minutes later, informing her of what she had uncovered so far during her investigation of the Origami Killer. She also relayed her suspicions about the killer contacting the victim’s father’s while being careful to keep her facts vague enough not to mention Harry, Ron or Draco’s involvement. Pansy sat and listened, her face stony and unreadable as she clung tightly to a hot cup of coffee without drinking it. She hadn’t offered Hermione a drink, but she didn’t think anything of it; being invited into the woman’s house was a more courteous gesture than she could ever have expected.

“Did Theo mention anything to you about receiving strange or threatening letters?” she asked.

Pansy shook her head, “He never said a word. He just kept himself locked up in his office upstairs most of the time. Then one morning, he just...left. Didn’t take his wand or his cloak with him, either. I thought he’d gone out looking for Adrian, but then he never came home. I thought...I thought he’d left us.”

Pansy became too choked up to speak. Hermione resisted the temptation to lay a reassuring hand on Pansy’s. She was more likely to throw the hot coffee in Hermione’s face than accept her gesture of comfort.

“Would you...may I have a look at his office?” he asked gently. Pansy screwed up her face. She looked like she was going to refuse, but instead she rose to her feet and inclined her head for Hermione to follow. Pansy unlocked the office door and pushed it open, but she didn’t enter the room.

“I don’t know what you expect to find in here, the Aurors have already searched the place,” she said. “Do you have any more questions?” Hermione shook her head. Pansy gave a curt nod, “Good. Just let yourself out when you’re done.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and wandered back downstairs. Hermione watched her disappear out of sight before entering the office, closing the door behind her. She shook her head in annoyance. The Aurors who had searched the office had left a mess in their wake, leaving drawers open and papers scattered all over the floor. Drawing her wand she took her chance and murmured, “ _Accio_ shoebox.”

Nothing happened. This didn’t surprise Hermione, but she still figured it was worth trying. She raised her wand and began to scan the room, searching for any indication of dark magic. She scanned the entire room twice over, but felt nothing insidious lingering. Changing tack, she searched for any indication of protection spells, and her wand immediately was drawn to the large writing desk by the window. Something was rattling in one of the drawers. Pulling the bottom drawers out she searched its contents but found nothing. No, the sound was coming from inside the writing desk…

Groping blindly underneath the desk, Hermione’s hand grazed over a latch and she pulled. There was a loud click and a hidden compartment came loose. Pulling it free she sat it on her lap, slid the wooden lid off of it and gasped as her eyes fell on the contents inside - a blank piece of parchment, an origami figure, and a photograph of Theo’s son inside a deep, dark well.

* * *

Draco stared up at the high-rise flat, a solid grey cinder block towering above him like a gravestone. He gripped tightly to his wand hidden in his cloak, unsure if he was going to be able to go through with this...

He opens the door and I kill him. I get the hell out of here and I don’t look back, Draco told himself, forcing his unsteady legs to move forward. He entered the building and beelined straight for the elevator, punching the button and waited for the doors to slide open. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest he felt faint.

 _Shitshitshit, I can’t. I can’t do this_ … Draco’s mind began to spiral. Was he actually going to go through with this? The elevator pinged and the doors slid open. After a moment’s hesitation, Draco stepped inside.

 _You must_ , he told himself, pressing the button for the seventh floor. _You didn’t come all this way just to give up now. You’ve got to do this. For Scorpius._

Too soon, the elevator shuddered and stopped. The doors slid open and Draco stepped out into a brightly lit corridor, his eyes immediately falling on the front door that bore the number 79b. He shuffled towards the door, raised his fist and knocked.

 _Don’t look him in the eyes, just...kill him,_ he coached himself. Another panicked voice rang out in his head as he waited for someone to answer the door.

_Kill a man. I’m going to kill a man to save my son. What kind of choice is that?_

_The only one I’ve got_ , he realised. The door creaked open and Draco’s heart missed a beat.

“Draco?”

Gregory Goyle stared at Draco with a confused expression.

“Greg,” he choked. _That bastard, that utter bastard. He did this on purpose, he’s setting me up to fail, I can’t kill Greg--_

“What are you doing here?” asked Greg, opening the door wider. Draco stumbled over his words.

“I uh...I came to see you, of course,” he laughed nervously, moving his hand behind his back to hide his wand. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah,” Greg nodded slowly. “How did you know where I lived?”

“Pansy,” Draco answered quickly, thinking fast. “She told me. I was in the area and I thought, uhh…”

Draco’s voice trailed. He stared up into the eyes of his oldest friend and realised that he wasn’t cut out for this. He made to turn away when Greg stepped aside and said, “Well, come in then, the kettle’s just boiled.”

As though his body was operating independently from his brain, Draco stepped into the flat. Greg closed the door behind him and led Draco into a small sitting room, inviting him to take a seat and make himself comfortable.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard from you,” he called over his shoulder as he wandered into the kitchen. Draco sat at the edge of his armchair, hands still hidden deep inside his cloak and around his wand.

“Yeah, I suppose it has,” he admitted, struggling to keep his voice steady. “H-how have you been?”

“Well enough,” sighed Greg, re-entering the living room with two steaming mugs of coffee. He sat one on the coffee table in front of Draco and sank into the couch with his own mug in hand. “I uh, heard what happened to Scorpius. I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do…”

“Thank you,” Draco cut in. The more Greg spoke, the worse Draco felt about what he had to do. If he could even do it...Greg took a sip of his coffee and continued.

“I mean, after what happened to Cetus...how much bad luck can one guy have?” he mused, more to himself than to Draco.

“You’d be surprised how much worse things can get,” muttered Draco darkly. Greg engaged in small talk, but Draco didn’t take in a word of what he was saying. He was thinking fast, trying to figure out how he was going to do this, if there was any way out of doing this. He could always get up and leave. But then he would lose his only chance to save his son. Killing one life to save another, is that ever justifiable?

“We haven’t really kept in touch over the years, have we?” asked Greg. “The last time I saw you was Cetus’ funeral. The last time I seen you before that...well, I can’t even remember if I’m honest.”

“Yeah, I’ve not really stayed in touch with the old crew since our school days,” said Draco. “Do you keep in touch with anyone else?”

“Not really,” said Greg, frowning at Draco. “Look...I’ve invited you into my home because we’re old friends, but I’m still not entirely sure why you’re here. Let’s be honest - Tower Hamlets isn’t an area of London I’d expect to see a Malfoy wandering about in. So, what are you really doing here, Draco?”

Draco’s breath quickened. It was now or never. Fuck, what was he going to do?

“I...I’m here for my son,” he said quietly. Greg’s frown deepened.

“Your son?” he asked, confused. Draco nodded.

“I’m trying to get him back, Greg. Get him back home safely,” he said cryptically. He thought he at least owed Greg an explanation for what he was about to do. “This is the only way.”

“I don’t understand…” Greg’s voice trailed and his eyes narrowed as they fixed onto Draco’s hands, still hidden deep in his pockets. A flash of comprehension flitted over his dark eyes and he looked into Draco’s face for confirmation. He didn’t understand why Draco was going to do what he was about to do, but he knew well enough the look of a man ready to kill. A fragile silence stretched out between the two men, friends since they were children. They stared at each other, both frightened and uncertain.

Neither of them moved, both waiting for the other to strike first. Greg’s right hand twitched a little and Draco took his chance and lunged forward with such force that he knocked the armchair backwards. Greg was too slow to reach for his wand, but he kicked the coffee table and it hit Draco hard on the shins. He swore loudly and tripped over the table onto the floor, rolling onto his back and out of Greg’s reach. Greg tried to stamp on Draco’s face, missing by mere inches as Draco scrambled backwards desperately, pulling his wand from his cloak pocket and pointing it at Greg, who had finally managed to draw his own.

_“Avada--”_

_“Expelliarmus!”_ shouted Greg and Draco’s wand soared into the air and into Greg’s outstretched hand.

“Shit,” Draco hissed.

 _“Confringo!”_ cried Greg. Draco managed to dive out of the firing line just in time as the cabinet behind him exploded, sending wood splinters in all directions. Greg waved his wand wildly, screaming curse after curse at Draco, destroying the living room in the process. Being slight and fast had always served Draco well as a Seeker, and it was the only thing saving him from being killed right now. He ran out of the living room and down the corridor, his hands covering his head and no idea where he was going or what the hell he was doing. Greg’s heavy footsteps lumbered after him.

“Bastard,” snarled Greg. “BASTARD.”

Draco ran into the nearest room and slammed the door shut behind him but Greg blew it off of its hinges seconds later. The force of the explosion sent Draco flying backwards and he hit his head off of the ground with such force that white stars exploded across his vision. Greg stepped into the room and loomed over Draco with his wand drawn, his expression one of abject fury.

“You think you can come into my home and kill me?” he bellowed, pointing his wand at Draco’s face. _“Cruci-”_

Draco kicked his leg out as hard as he could and struck Greg on the side of the knee. There was a sickening _snap_ and Greg screamed in pain as he crumpled to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Operating purely on instinct now, Draco drew the dagger from his cloak and lunged at Greg, but Greg got ahold of Draco’s wrist before he could plunge the blade into his chest. They rolled about the floor, grunting, kicking and screaming at one another, neither willing to concede.

Greg was soon on top of Draco, the weight of his body pinning him to the ground, forcing the air from his lungs. Greg’s hand grappled desperately for the blade in Draco’s hand, crushing his hand in a vice-like grip in an attempt to make Draco let go, but he continued to cling to the dagger for dear life. Slowly, Greg began to turn the blade towards Draco. Draco panicked. No matter how hard he fought, he was no match against Greg’s weight and size. He was going to lose. The blade inched towards his chest and Draco knew he only had moments to live. He was going to die here, on the floor of his old friend’s flat, and his son was going to die because he wouldn’t be there to save him.

“No!” screamed Draco. He shifted his body to the left and allowed the blade to be plunged into his shoulder. Greg gasped in shock and his hand slipped from the dagger’s hilt. Ignoring the searing pain shooting through his shoulder, Draco pulled the dagger from his own shoulder and plunged it into Greg’s chest, straight into his heart. Greg’s eyes widened in shock. He glanced down at the blade in his chest and then rolled onto his back, his breath failing him. Draco was crying. He crawled over to Greg and held him tight, muttering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” over and over again, as he watched the expression on his old friend’s face change from shock to one of fear, and then nothing.

Draco didn’t know how long he lay there - it could have been seconds or years - all concept of time and reality had slipped away. His mind no longer felt connected to his body. The sounds of the rain drew him back to reality and he remembered what was supposed to do. Rummaging through his pockets he pulled out the eyeball and turned the blue iris towards Greg’s body, proof that the deed was done.

Draco jumped and jerked his head around as a loud tapping noise came from the nearby window. A magpie sat perched on the sill, cawing and rapping the glass with its sharp beak.

The messenger.

Draco, beaten and bruised from the fight, struggled to his feet and limped over to open the window. The bird hopped onto the windowsill and inclined its head to him, its leg outstretched with a message attached. Draco detached the message from its leg and it quickly took flight again, gliding around the building and out of sight.

Draco fumbled with shaking fingers to open the message and found that it was another photograph of Scorpius. The water was up to his chest now - he was running out of time. Draco checked the back of the photograph and found a message scrawled that read,

_Congratulations, Draco. Only two more trials to complete and your son will be free. Report back to the Leaky Cauldron and await further instructions._

Draco stuffed the photograph into his cloak pocket and turned to leave, avoiding looking at Greg’s body as he stumbled out of the room. How much more of this could he endure?


	12. Sacrifice

Harry sat on the edge of Hermione’s bed, frowning at the cardboard box on his lap. Ron leant against the window frame, stony-faced as he watched Muggles walking passed on the busy street below. Hermione had summoned both men immediately after departing from Pansy’s house to update them on what she had found. While she was relieved that she finally had proof of the Origami Killer’s correspondence with the victim’s father’s (without having to reveal Draco’s involvement), more disturbing evidence had come to light.

“Here’s the thing,” Hermione continued. “When I asked Pansy which Aurors had searched her house, she couldn’t tell me.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, “As in she couldn’t remember which officers had been to the house?”

Hermione shook her head, “She couldn’t remember how many Aurors had come to the house, or when they had been there, for that matter. She couldn’t even tell me what they looked like.”

“Shit,” Harry muttered. “Sounds like someone’s tampered with her memory.”

“Not very well, might I add. I think the killer went to Pansy’s house trying to find this,” she replied, inclining her head towards the box on Harry’s lap. “Do you think Healers can restore her memory?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” said Ron, already moving towards the door. “Harry, you better get that evidence back to the lab for analysis. I’ll go pick up Pansy now and take her to the hospital myself.”

“Thanks, Ron,” said Harry. Ron waved them both goodbye and hurried out of the bedroom. Harry gave Hermione a curious look.

“While I appreciate everything that you’ve done, is there a particular reason you asked us to meet you at The Leaky instead of at your own flat?” he asked.

“You wanted to keep our meetings under the radar, didn’t you?” she replied evasively. Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Right. So it’s mere coincidence that you’re staying here at the same time as Malfoy?”

“How do you know Malfoy’s here?” she asked. Harry smirked.

“It’s my job to know these things.”

Hermione crossed her arms and shrugged, “You said it yourself - you don’t have the money or resources to follow up on every Death Eater out there. Once word got out that it was his son that was missing, I figured it was worthwhile tailing him.”

“And?” he asked expectantly. Hermione shrugged.

“Nothing to tell,” she lied. Harry didn’t look convinced.

“You know, Astoria’s owling our office every hour of the day demanding updates on the investigation. We haven’t heard a word from Malfoy, not since his initial interview. Pretty suspicious, don’t you think?”

Hermione hesitated, then said cryptically, “Maybe he isn’t contacting the office because he feels like he can’t.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, “Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t,” she reaffirmed.

Harry stared hard at Hermione for a few moments, an unspoken understanding passing between the two friends.

“If you know more than you’re letting on and you’re choosing not to tell me, I’m going to assume you have a damn good reason for doing so,” he said pointedly.

“Do you trust me?” she asked simply.

“Of course, I do,” he replied quietly.

“Then trust that I know what I’m doing,” she pleaded. “I promise, I will tell you what I know in time. But to tell you what I know would put that little boy’s life in greater danger.”

Harry sighed and nodded. He looked exhausted, “I trust you, Hermione. But I don’t trust Malfoy. Just be careful around him, okay?”

“You think he’d hurt his own son?” she asked, surprised that Harry would think such a thing. He shook his head.

“No, but I think he’d do just about anything to get him back,” he replied darkly.

Hermione waved Harry off soon after, feeling as tired as he looked. She had planned on spending the rest of the day reinterviewing the rest of the victims mothers, but Harry had said that the Aurors would take over from where she had left off - they would need to check if anyone else showed signs of having their memories tampered. Initially annoyed at being sidelined by the Aurors in the investigation, she now welcomed the break. As busy as she was, she couldn’t function properly on no sleep.

Her head had barely hit the pillow however when she heard the unmistakable footsteps of Draco Malfoy lumbering up the stairs. She listened carefully as he seemed to stagger along the corridor, the creak of his door opening then a resounding crash that shook her bedroom floor. Hermione sat bolt upright, her wand already drawn as she ran out into the corridor. Draco had warned her to leave him alone, but she couldn’t in good conscience ignore him being attacked. She rushed out into the corridor, wand at the ready, but the corridor was empty. Draco’s bedroom door lay open and she peered inside.

“Shit,” she hissed, holstering her wand. Draco lay just over the threshold, face down and unmoving. Hermione sank to her knees and huffed as she struggled to turn him over onto his front - he may be slim but he was still heavy. As she managed to flop him unceremoniously onto his back, his head lolled from side to side, his already pale face had completely drained of colour. He was out cold. Hermione slapped him on the face.

“Malfoy, can you hear me?” she asked. No response. She slapped him harder, “Draco!”

Still, he did not stir. Hermione brought her ear to his blue-tinged lips - he was still breathing, but barely. It was only then that she realised that Draco’s robes weren’t sodden from the rain, but with his own blood. Hermione stumbled out of the room, her hands stained red. She needed help. Fast. __

* * *

Draco stirred. For the briefest of moments, he was sure he had died but he was certain that death wasn’t this painful. Still, he seemed to be in a better state than he had expected: when he had staggered out of Greg’s flat, his head spinning and he was struggling to breath, he didn’t think he’d make it back to the Leaky without splinching himself. By some miracle he’d made it to his bedroom, then everything had gone black. He unconsciously reached up to touch his cheek which stung painfully. He had a vague recollection of being slapped like that before, although it had been several years since that particular incident had occurred. Draco jumped in fright as he felt a damp cloth being pressed to his forehead. His eyes snapped open and Hermione’s face came into focus.

“Sorry,” she said apologetically. “I didn’t mean to give you a fright.”

“Granger,” he grunted. “What are you doing here?”

“Not helping you, just like you asked,” she joked.

“Funny,” he grumbled. “I thought I told you to stay out of my business.”

“You did,” she acknowledged, pressing the cloth to his forehead again. It felt pleasantly cool against his clammy skin. “It’s not my fault I practically tripped over you in a pool of your own blood in the corridor. I considered keeping my word and leaving you alone, but since you would have died if Tom and I hadn’t intervened…”

“Tom?” asked Draco, confused.

“The barman,” Hermione explained. “He helped me get you onto the bed and grabbed some medical supplies. He’s definitely discreet, old Tom. You should leave him a sizable tip when you leave.” Draco tried to shift his legs off of the bed to stand, but Hermione pushed him back down onto the bed. “Take it easy,” she said gently. “I patched you up as best I could, but you’re not out of the woods yet. I’ve given you a Blood-Replenishing Potion and applied dittany to your wounds. I had to cauterise that deep cut on your shoulder - was it made by the same blade that you used to cut off your finger?” Draco nodded. Hermione gave Draco a searching look, “You didn’t do that to yourself too, did you?”

“No,” he muttered. “Someone else did that to me.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who ?” she asked.

“No,” he replied shortly. Hermione rolled her eyes but said nothing. She wasn’t surprised that he was keeping that information to himself.

“Well, whoever you were fighting with, they really did a number on you,” she noted. “Broken ribs, a punctured lung...looks like you really pissed someone off.”

“Hmm, you should see the other guy,” he groaned, grimacing in pain as he got into a seating position. “Help me sit up, I think it’ll be easier to breath that way.”

“I thought you didn’t want my help,” she teased, but still she helped him get more comfortable. “How are you feeling?”

“As good as I look,” he replied.

“Like shit?” she joked. The corners of Draco’s mouth quirked in amusement. He never pegged Granger as having a sense of humour similar to his own.

“How long have I been out?” he asked.

“All night,” she sighed, brushing her long mane of curls out of her face. Her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, “It was touch and go for a while. I wasn’t sure you were going to make it.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably, “Well, I appreciate the efforts you’ve gone to keep me alive. I know I was...resistant in accepting your offer of help, but it’s clear that I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for you. So...thank you.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise, “Did you just pay me a compliment and thank me in the same sentence, Malfoy?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” he huffed. “I might be a prick, but I’m not an ungrateful prick.”

“Wow, you’ve changed quite a lot since our school days,” she laughed.

“And you haven’t?” he asked. “It’s been twenty years, Granger. We’re not teenagers anymore. If you cared to know me better I’m sure you’d find me to be quite amicable company.”

“Well, maybe when this is all over I can find that out for myself,” she said, smiling. Draco smiled back, surprising himself that he rather liked the idea of getting to know Granger better, too. It was strange how easy she was to talk to.

“I um...I found this in your breast pocket,” said Hermione tentatively, handing Draco the photograph of his family. He took it from her outstretched hand and frowned at it. The last picture he had of his family was now smeared brown with his blood.

“Your boys, they’re the spitting image of you when you were at school,” Hermione noted.

“I suppose so,” he replied quietly, running his thumb over their faces, imagining he could reach out to them through the photograph. “Cetus shared my passion for Quidditch, and he loved flying. He was more like a bird in the air than a boy on a broomstick. I miss watching him fly.”

Draco only realised he was crying when a tear hit the photograph. He brushed it off of the picture along with some of his dried blood.

“Scorpius on the other hand,” he continued, smiling fondly at his son’s moving picture. “He’s the more studious of the two: he loves his books. And animals - he wants to be the next Newt Scamander when he grows up. And for some inexplicable reason he’s developed an interest in all things to do with Harry Potter.”

Hermione laughed, “You’re worst nightmare come true.”

“Not the worst,” he said with a sad smile. Silence followed as Draco gazed at the photograph, suddenly feeling guilty that he had taken a few stolen moments to relax and laugh when his son was still out there, alone and afraid.

“You’re going to find him,” said Hermione, seemingly reading his thoughts. Draco looked up at her and she had a look of steely determination on your face. It gave him a sliver of courage to know that at least someone believed that he could do this. It still surprised him that person was Granger. She opened her mouth to speak, then quickly closed it again, looking uncertain. Draco frowned at her.

“What is it?” he asked curiously. Hermione’s eyes fell to his bare chest and a little shiver traversed his spine. Obviously Hermione had needed to strip him from his blood-soaked clothing to tend to his wounds, and although he was now heavily bandaged, he still felt naked under her intense gaze.

“When I was patching you up, I couldn’t help but notice the scar above your heart,” she said quietly, reaching out to touch with without thinking. Draco snatched her hand into his own and she paused.

“Don’t,” he warned, more of a plea than a threat.

“Sorry,” she breathed. “I just...I thought Harry was the only one.”

“Apparently not,” he muttered darkly. Hermione eyed the lightning bolt scar curiously.

“How did you get it?” she asked.

“Cetus,” he replied simply. Hermione looked confused, so he explained, “In the moments before Dolohov attacked me, Cetus stepped between us, trying to shield me.”

“Oh my god,” said Hermione with quiet horror and awe. “Sacrificial protection.”

Draco nodded solemnly, “He didn’t know what he was doing, it was just a natural instinct for Cetus to protect those that he loved. He died for me when I should have been me protecting him.” His face screwed up with disgust, “What kind of father lets their son die for them?”

“You didn’t let him die for you,” she implored. “There’s no way you could have stopped what happened.”

Hermione squeezed his hand sympathetically and he felt a fluttering sensation grow in the centre of his chest. It was a familiar feeling, although it was one that he hadn’t felt for a very long time. It felt like the first shoots of something growing that had lain dormant through a long, treacherous winter. A tense silence hung between them for a few moments, neither sure what else to say. It was only then that Draco realised that he and Hermione were still holding hands. He quickly withdrew his hand and cleared his throat. Hermione folded her hands in her lap, looking embarrassed.

Draco sighed and shook his head, “However you try to rationalise what happened that day, it should have been me, Granger. I should have been the one who died. But I let Cetus die...I won’t let Scorpius die, too. Not for me.”

Draco swung his legs off of the bed and made to stand up. He was wasting precious time reminiscing about past mistakes that couldn’t be changed. But as he rose to his feet, his legs shook so badly that he nearly fell forward. Hermione rolled her eyes and pushed him back onto the bed.

“I understand what you’re trying to do, Draco. But you’re not going to be much help to your son if you can barely stand,” she pointed out. “A couple of hours ago you were moments from death. You need to get your energy back up before you can do...whatever it is that you’ve been doing.”

Draco couldn’t help but snort, “I remember well at school you were constantly trying to save everyone - house elves, hippogriffs, Potter...you can’t save me, Granger.”

“I’m trying to save you from yourself,” she argued fiercely. “If you keep playing the killer’s game, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I don’t have a choice!” he shouted.

“You always have a choice!” she implored.

“Then tell me what to do!” he cried. “Tell me how to fix this.”

“I don’t know!” she shouted, throwing her hands up in defeat. “I don’t know…”

“First time you’ve failed to come up with a solution to a problem?” he jeered. Hermione folded her arms and slumped back in her seat.

“First time for everything, I suppose,” she relented. She drew him a defiant look, “I still don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone at the moment, not when you’re still so frail.”

“I am not an invalid!” he protested.

“I know you’re not but you’re not invincible, either,” she pointed out.

Draco snarled, “I don’t have time for this--”

“You can’t go running after the killer if you can’t even walk!” she snapped. She sighed and sunk back into her seat, “Please, just...humour me - take another Blood-Replenishing Potion, get some rest, and we’ll see how you’re doing in another couple of hours.”

Draco looked as though he were going to argue, but finally he relented and muttered, “Fine. Have it your way.”

He turned away from her, too weak and too tired to fight. He knew she was right - he was in no fit state to be going anywhere. He listened to the rain battering off of the window, fretting over how little time he had left.


	13. The Nundu

It didn’t take long for Hermione to succumb to sleep. Already exhausted, she resolved to rest her eyes - only for a minute - and was soon snoring gently, her head rested in her arms leaning against the edge of Draco’s bed. Draco however, could not sleep. He lay there listening to Hermione’s gentle breaths, in and out, swelling and falling like waves. It had been a long time since he’d really been in the company of another person for such an extended period of time but it was strangely comforting to listen to. Although it still felt peculiar to be in the company of Hermione Granger, it hadn’t been entirely unpleasant under the circumstances. But the peaceful respite had to end. He had more important tasks to attend to.

Slipping out of bed as quietly as possible so not to disturb Hermione, Draco got unsteadily to his feet, but remained standing this time. He quickly got dressed, pulling on the clean clothes that sat in the nearby chari - Tom must have taken his blood soaked clothes and cleaned them. He winced as he slipped on his black shirt over his beaten and bruised body, noting the large tear where Greg had stabbed him. Shuffling over to the writing desk, he pulled the enchanted parchment towards him and scribbled a note, What now?

After a few moments, a new message appeared:

Great to hear from you, Draco. I was beginning to worry you had given up.

Just tell me what to do next, Draco wrote back quickly. He didn’t have to wait long for the next ominous message to appear:

Are you prepared to suffer to save your son?  
Inside the Nundu figurine I have concealed a Knut. It is a portkey that will take you to your next location. Leave your wand, you won’t be needing it.  
Good luck.

Draco carefully unwrapped the paper figurine to reveal a bronze coin emanating a soft blue glow. He turned and looked at Hermione sleeping peacefully on the edge of the bed. Part of him rather hoped that he might see her again, but he quickly smothered that thought and focussed on the task at hand. He pressed his index finger onto the Knut and felt himself being pulled forwards, spinning round and round at such dizzying speed that the bedroom disappeared in a blur of colour. As he began to slow down, he landed hard on a damp stone floor. Staggering a little, he straightened up and took in his new surroundings.

His fear piqued as he recognised where the killer had taken him - even in the semi-darkness, the rough stone walls and arrowslit windows were unmistakable.

Azkaban.

Draco knew the interior of the fortress well, having visited often enough during his school days when his father had been imprisoned here. The prison had been abandoned shortly after Kingsley Shacklebolt had taken office, introducing major reforms to the Ministry and law enforcement. Almost twenty years had passed since prison had closed its doors for the last time and the Dementors had been expelled. _A small mercy_ , thought Draco. He shuddered at the thought of dealing with the foul creatures in any capacity. Facing one without his wand, it didn’t bear thinking about.

He turned on the spot in the darkened room which he realised to be one of the prison’s many cells, and his eyes were immediately drawn to a pale green light emanating from the corner of the room. He squinted in the darkness and saw that the light was coming from a stone basin not dissimilar from a pensieve, set atop a pedestal. As he approached, he saw that the greenish light was coming a mysterious liquid inside the basin. At the bottom of the basin he could see the faint outline of a photograph. The image was too blurred to discern any details, although Draco was certain it was another picture of Scorpius. It seemed to glow and shimmer beneath the murky green surface of the green liquid. It appeared to be another Portkey.

Draco hesitated. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do here. He tentatively reached out for the basin, but felt an invisible force field prevent his hand from plunging beneath the surface. Stepping away from the basin, he ran his hands along the walls, searching for clues or an exit but finding neither. Although the prison was long-abandoned, Draco could still sense the many protective spells in place: there was no way he would be able to Apparate out of here. He was trapped. Taking a step backward he tripped over something large on the floor and fell, grunting in pain as he skinned the palms of his hands on the rough stone floor. He turned to see what had tripped him over and couldn’t help the scream that escaped him.

Sprawled on the ground was a body. After the initial shock of seeing the corpse (and the momentary relief that it wasn’t an Inferi), Draco crawled closer to the body to get a better look at it. He felt his blood run cold as he recognised the disfigured face.

It was Theo Nott.

Draco let out a strangled sob. He could not believe his eyes. Theo’s once handsome face was now badly discoloured, his tongue black and swollen jutting out of his mouth. His eyes were sunken into his head and flappy dry skin hung from his face like ancient parchment. Dried blood and vomit stained his mouth and nose. He looked as though he had died of thirst. Resisting every instinct that told him to retreat from the mummified corpse, Draco reached forward and checked the man’s trouser pockets. Empty, except for a scrap of unfolded washi and a single Knut, just like Draco had been given. The only other item on the body was a silver goblet that Theo’s emaciated fingers remained clutched around. Curious, Draco reached out for Theo’s left hand and to no surprise, found that he too was missing a finger.

“Fuck,” he hissed, climbing back to his feet. Evidently the Origami Killer had set Draco the same tasks as Theo - he’d probably done it with all of the victim’s fathers. He had survived the first two tasks, but here, for some reason Theo had failed. Draco wondered how far the others had gotten before they had died or given up. He turned back towards the basin, fairly certain now what he was expected to do - he would have to drink the potion in to reach the other portkey. It was his only means of escape. Prising the goblet from Theo’s skeletal hand, he strode towards the pedestal and plunged it into the basin. The goblet easily penetrated the magical force field, and he filled it to the brim with the luminescent green liquid.

Draco eyed the contents of the content wearily. Merlin knows what would happen when he would drink this, although he was fairly sure that whatever it did, it would be unpleasant. So, was he prepared to suffer for his son?

Draco downed the contents of the goblet in two large gulps. Nothing happened for a moment, then he gasped as a sharp pain shot through his stomach as though he had drunk acid, spreading out from the centre of his stomach, into his lungs, the tips of his toes. The pain was so acute he was sure it would split his head open. The only time Draco had felt pain like this before was when the Dark Lord had performed the Cruciatus on him, but this...this was transcendent.

His hands shook as he scooped up another gobletful of liquid and began to drink. The cool liquid burned as it sloshed down his throat, causing him to cough and splutter as the fire in his stomach intensified. He looked into the basin. He was barely a quarter of the way through the contents of the basin and already he was reaching his limit - how was he supposed to keep drinking this? Snarling with determination, Draco filled the goblet again and drank another gobletful, then another, and another...

If Draco thought that pain was the worst thing he could experience, he was sorely mistaken. It was quickly eclipsed by dread as Cetus suddenly appeared lying dead at his feet, glassy eyed with fear etched across his pale face. The goblet clattered to the floor as Draco sank to his knees, crying, “No, no, no…” As he reached out for Cetus, Astoria appeared. She hunched over their son’s small, broken body, crying, “This is all your fault! You killed our boys. You killed them…”

“No, I didn’t mean to,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Draco recoiled as he saw the body in the corner began to shudder and move. He was so frightened he could breath, his scream died in his throat as he scrambled backwards away from the approaching body. The corpse’s bony hand reached out and grabbed Draco’s ankle in a vice-like grip.

“Bastard,” croaked the corpse. “BASTARD!”

Draco clenched his eyes shut and covered his ears. This wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real. It had to be the potion. Trying to focus on the pain to distract him from Astoria’s anguished cries, Scorpius’ terrified screams suddenly filled his head, begging for his father to help, “Save me, Daddy! Help me! I can’t swim, I can’t breath…”

And then came the rain. Rain battered down on his head, cold and merciless as it beat down on top of his scalp. Draco opened his eyes and looked around, confused. He was no longer in the cell in Azkaban, but in a deep, dark well, the same one that he had seen Scorpius in. The water was rising fast, up passed his chin, submerging his face…Draco gasped and flailed, struggling to keep his head above water. His arms and legs felt so cold and heavy, his head kept dipping beneath the dark surface of the water. He was drowning in fear and all-consuming pain as the water filled his lungs, every cell in his body was aflame. He sank deeper and deeper into the well, Scorpius’ cries still ringing in his ears. Death seemed like a welcome relief.

Suddenly a hand swatted across his face, shaking him from his terrifying reverie. For the second time that day, Hermione’s face came into focus.

“Snap out of it, Draco!” she shouted, giving his shoulders a rough shake. “If you don’t get your act together your going to die! Scorpius is going to die! Now, are you with me?”

Draco looked around and saw that he was still in the cell in Azkaban. Cetus and Astoria were gone. The corpse lay where it had always been, silent and unmoving. His robes were dry and Scorpius’ cries had desisted.

“I-I’m okay,” he confirmed shakily. The silver goblet lay discarded at the foot of the pedestal. Draco crawled forward and snatched it from the ground. He turned towards Hermione and asked, “How did you find me?”

Draco’s heart missed a beat. Hermione was gone. _Just another hallucination_ , he realised. He sighed and leaned against the basin, trying to gather his senses. Evidently the potion not only induced pain, but the drinker’s worst fears. He understood all too well how easy it was to be consumed with despair, to lie down and hope for death. He felt like that every single day. If the killer thought Draco would succumb to fear, then he had underestimated the man. He supposed he could handle the effects of the potion better than most because he was already living his worst nightmare.

He glared determinedly at the remnants of the potion. He would not succumb to fear and death. Not yet. He scraped more potion into the goblet and drank…


	14. Secrets in the Soil

Harry paced back and forth the forensics lab, waiting impatiently as Neville analysed the origami figurines that Hermione had recovered from Theo Nott’s office. His stress was palpable to everyone around him, it seemed to radiate off of his body like static. Of course, that could be his magic. Harry had always struggled to keep it in check when he was angry.

Soon after Harry had arrived back at the Ministry to receive an update on the search for Scorpius Malfoy, Ron had come back from St. Mungo’s after escorting Pansy Nott there. He said that while the Healers were certain that Pansy was the victim of a messy memory alteration, it was going to take time to recover the original memories. While it was a small step forward in the case, it did little to alleviate Harry’s worries. There was no telling how long it would take the Healers to recover Pansy’s memory, or indeed if she knew the identity of the killer, but if they didn’t do it soon, it would be too late to save Scorpius Malfoy.

Harry felt like he was coming apart at the seams - the pressure from the Ministry, the press, the victims’ parents, and most of all himself, was insurmountable. He wasn’t making enough progress with the case. It was his fault, of course, his responsibility to solve these crimes, yet one failure kept piling up after another. Recently he had taken to sleeping at the office because there was too much work for him to do, not that he ever slept - every time he closed his eyes, passed and current nightmares revisited him. That night at the graveyard in Little Hangleton, the Battle of Hogwarts, eight children of Death Eaters found dead and discarded...no, he’d rather work himself into the ground that revisit those horrors in his dreams.

“You know, pacing back and forth like that isn’t going to make this go any faster,” Neville warned him without looking up from. Harry stopped pacing and sighed, sinking into a stool next to Neville.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Please tell me you have something for me, Neville. I’m at the end of my tether, here.”

Neville gently placed the origami figure back onto the desktop and rubbed his tired eyes, “Well, the washi paper is the same type found with the other bodies. And it isn’t store-bought, either. It’s made with gampi - a Japanese shrub, member of the genus Wikstroemia. It’s a temperamental little plant, needs to be saturated in water and sap before it is harvested in late Spring--”

“Neville,” said Harry wearily. His old school friend was prone to going off on tangents whenever Herbology was the topic of discussion.

“Sorry. Point being, that this little plant has been cultivated and cared for over time. The killer evidently has an uncanny knack for Herbology. Speaking of which…” Neville swished his wand. A nearby drawer slid open and a brown folder flew through the air and landed on the table in front of him. Neville opened the folder and pointed at complicated charts that Harry made no attempt to decipher.

“I completed my analysis of the narcissus; it’s a Muggle flower. Narcissus are hardy and easy perennials to grow, pretty much any Muggle or wizarding garden would be equipped to breed this variant.”

Harry’s shoulders sagged, “Well that’s not much help, is it? Anyone could have grown the bloody thing.”

“If you let me finish before you interrupt,” said Neville pointedly. Harry shut his mouth and Neville continued, “We can’t tell you much about where the flowers were grown, but I can tell you quite a lot about the soil they were planted in.” He pointed at one of the charts, “The soil that we recovered from the flowers was different from what we found at the crime scenes. The first thing I noticed was the unusual colouring and clay texture of the soil, so I ran some tests. As I suspected, the soil is high in nutrients, and the colouration is derived from red sandstone. Sedimentary rocks found in most eastern parts of Devonshire include Permian and Triassic sandstones - that’s gives it this unique red colour.”

Harry stared blankly at Neville, “So…”

Neville rolled his eyes, “The flowers were grown in Devon, Harry. That’s most likely where you’ll find your killer.”

Harry sat back, stunned at the revelation. There weren’t that many Wizarding families in the Devonshire area. This was the break that he had desperately needed.

“Neville,” said Harry carefully. “You may have just taken us one massive step towards solving this case.”

Just then, heavy footsteps came hurrying down the corridor. A moment later, Ron came bursting into the lab, striding towards Harry and Neville.

“Harry!” he called.

Harry slid off the stool and got to his feet, “What’s happened?”

“A report’s just come in,” Ron huffed. “A body’s been found.”

Harry’s heart missed a beat, “Scorpius Malfoy?”

Ron shook his head, “Gregory Goyle.”

Harry gaped, “We’ve got a serial killer on the loose and now Goyle’s dead? What the fuck is going on?”

Ron shrugged, “Merlin only knows, Harry. There’s never been so many murders and disappearances. Not since You-Know-Who’s days.”

Harry swore under his breath and marched out of the room, closely followed by Ron. This was just typical. Just when he thought he was making some progress, someone had to throw a bloody spanner in the works.

“What do we know so far?” he asked, heading towards the elevators.

“There were signs of a struggle, the flat is in a real mess. Goyle was found in one of the bedrooms, stabbed to death,” Ron explained.

“Stabbed?” asked Harry in disbelief. “Do they think it was a Muggle?”

Ron shook his head, “He had a big bloody dagger sticking out of his chest, but it wasn’t an ordinary Muggle blade, it was imbued with dark magic. Looks like we’ve got another killer on the loose.”

“That’s the last thing we need,” he muttered darkly. “Any suspects?”

“Only one so far,” said Ron. “Draco Malfoy.”


	15. The Fugitive

A loud bang and a protracted groan startled Hermione from her slumber. Instinctively she jumped to her feet, wand drawn, then immediately lowered it when she saw Draco lying sprawled in a heap on the floor by the foot of the bed.

“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” she cried out in exasperation, helping him into a sitting position. She patted him down, looking for injuries, “Where have you hurt yourself this time?”

His face was screwed up in pain, but he shook his head.

“I’m fine,” he assured her. Hermione let out a long sigh of relief and sat back on her haunches.

“I can’t even shut my eyes for a minute without you trying to kill yourself!” she chided. Draco let out a short, sharp laugh.

“I didn’t realise you cared so much, Granger,” he grimaced, wiping sweat off of his brow with his sleeve. Hermione frowned and blushed, avoiding his gaze.

“Against my better judgement, perhaps,” she admitted. Her eyes fell to the paper scrunched up in his hand, “What’s that?”

Draco held it out for her to look at and she gasped. It was a photograph of Scorpius in a deep, dark well - just like the one she had seen of Adrian Nott. The water was just below the boy’s chin now. They were running out of time. She looked at Draco, wide-eyed with alarm.

“You completed another trial? Where did you go?” she asked. Draco frowned at her.

“How do you know about that?” he asked suspiciously.

“Your letter,” she explained. “I found it earlier and read it while you were unconscious. Don’t worry, I haven’t given it to Harry or Ron.”

“Oh,” Draco’s shoulders sagged. He’d forgotten about writing the letter. “Well yes, I’ve completed the third trial. And I found Theo.”

Hermione’s eyes widened with shock, “You did?”

Draco nodded, struggling to get back to his feet. Hermione took a firm grip of his hand and helped him stand.

“He’s in Azkaban,” he explained. Preempting Hermione’s next question, he added, “He’s dead.”

Hermione looked crestfallen, “If I’m honest, I’m not surprised. But I was holding out hope, at least for Pansy’s sake.”

“It’s too late for him now,” he muttered, hobbling over to the writing desk. He sunk into the chair and dragged the enchanted parchment towards him. He scribbled a short note, It’s done. What now?

“That’s how you’ve been communicating with the killer, then? With a Protean charm?” asked Hermione, leaning over his shoulder to look at the parchment. Draco gave a curt nod but said nothing, waiting for the killer to reply. It took longer for them to reply this time, but soon enough another message appeared…

Are you prepared to give your life to save your son’s?

Hermione made a strangled noise behind him and covered her mouth in shock. Without hesitation, Draco replied, I am.

“Malfoy, what are you doing?” asked Hermione desperately.

“Trying to save my son,” he replied stiffly, avoiding her gaze. A new message began to appear on the parchment:

We shall see about that. Inside the Augury figurine, I have enclosed the address of where you shall face the final trial of your life. At last, we shall see if you really are willing to give up everything to save Scorpius.

“Give your life…” Hermione read in a shaky voice. “You can’t really be considering this.”

“Do you have a better suggestion?” he spat. Hermione didn’t answer. Draco sniffed, “Thought not.”

As Draco went to write his reply, Hermione slapped her hand onto the parchment to stop him.

“There must be another way,” she argued.

“There isn’t,” he replied shortly. “And even if there was, I’ve already run out of time.” He pointed at the picture still clutched in Hermione’s other hand, “He’s got a couple of hours at most before the water will be passed his head, and then I’ll be too late. I need to find him now. If that means I...”

Draco’s voice trailed. It would too difficult to say the words aloud because it would make it all too real: to save Scorpius he had to die. There was a terrible, terrifying finality to it, in knowing that he would be dead, probably within the hour. But when he had started these trials, he had always suspected that it might come to this. His suspicions had been proven correct, and he was ready however grudgingly to accept what was needed to be done. Scorpius may lose his father, but at least he’d be alive.

“If that means I die, then I die,” he declared. He brushed her hand aside and started to write a reply, but Hermione snatched the augurey figure off of the desk and quickly backed away from the writing desk. Draco jumped to his feet and held out his hand.

“Give it back,” he hissed. Hermione shook her head, looking despondent.

“I know we’ve had our differences in the past, Draco, but I can’t let you go on some suicide mission.”

“Give it back!” he bellowed, lunging forward to try and snatch the figurine out of her hand, but Hermione was too quick and cast a shield charm between them. Draco bounced off of the invisible forcefield and staggered backward. Colour flushed his normally pale cheeks, his face contorted with fury and fear.

“Stop trying to play the hero and rescue me, Granger!”

“I won’t let you kill yourself,” she said, shaking her head.

“You let Potter walk into the woods that night to meet his end, and he was your best friend. I’m nothing to you, this should be easy!” he sneered.

“I didn’t!” she cried. “He left of his own accord. Probably because he knew that Ron and I would never have let him, even if it was the only choice he had left. But you’re not Harry. I know if I let you walk out that door, you’re not coming back.”

“I know that,” he conceded. “I’m cruel and unkind. I lie and cheat. I’m too cowardly to stand up to anyone, and I’m always out to save my skin. But above all else I am a father. It’s the only thing I was ever been good at, and even then I fucked that up, too. Don’t you understand? I can’t let Scorpius die. I won’t. You think I want to do this? You think if there wasn’t another alternative I wouldn’t take it? I need to do this.”

Draco didn’t care how desperate he - he was desperate. He was running out of time and Granger was wasting it by suffering a mistimed moral quandary. She stared desperately from Draco to the origami figure and the photograph clenched in her fist.

“It doesn’t matter what I choose,” she whispered. “You or Scorpius - one way or another, someone is going to die.”

“Then let it be me,” Draco implored. “Scorpius had no say in any of this. At least I’m making the choice.” He held out his hand to her, pleadingly, “Give me the address, Hermione. Please.”

They stared at each other in silence for what felt like an age, the tension palpable. Hermione looked as though she might turn tail and run with the figurine, but after a few moments the shield flickered and fell. Draco hardly dared to breath as he approached her. Hand still outstretched, he slowly stepped towards her like he would if he were approaching a hippogriff, he was afraid she might change her mind again. Carefully, he tugged the figurine and the photograph from Hermione’s trembling hand.

“Then at least let me go with you,” she pleaded. Draco shook his head.

“I can’t let you do that,” he said gently. “Though I appreciate the sentiment.”

“This isn’t right,” she said angrily, tears spilling over her cheeks now. Draco instinctively reached out and gently brushed them away.

“I know,” he agreed quietly. “I always thought this was how it might end. I think you did, too.”

His hand lingered on her soft cheek, but Hermione didn’t push him away. Draco felt a pang of regret that it had taken such extraordinary circumstances to bring them together. In the short time he’d spent with Granger, he thought that under different circumstances they might even make a good match. But in a predictable twist of fate, the situation which had brought them would inexorably tear them apart. He was sorry he wouldn’t see her again.

Draco leaned in to press a goodbye kiss to Hermione’s cheek, but she turned her head and kissed him on the lips. Draco unconsciously pressed their lips together more firmly, his head spinning with exhilaration and fear. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, but he savoured the stolen moment of bliss, a temporary respite from what he had to do next.

Draco heard a commotion coming from the street below and pulled away from Hermione, frowning.

“What’s going on out there?” she asked as they both hurried to the window and looked down at the busy Muggle street. Several Aurors were Apparating onto the edge of the pavement and running for the front door of the entrance.

“Fuck,” he hissed. He stuffed his wand in his pocket and strode towards the door, “I need to get out of here.”

“Hold up,” said Hermione, grabbing Draco’s arm. “Why are they coming for you? Surely they don’t think you’re involved?”

“It’s complicated,” he began, but stopped talking abruptly as he heard heavy footsteps rushing up the stairs. Any second now they would come crashing through the bedroom door…

Hermione pushed Draco towards the window and drew her wand.

“Go,” she said firmly. “Get out of here while you still can. I won’t be able to hold them off for long.”

Draco didn’t need telling twice. He grunted as he slid open the stiff window and slipped outside onto the fire escape. As he ascended the metal staircase towards the roof, Hermione’s murmured incantations grew quieter with each step, _“Protego Totalum. Fianto Duri. Salvio Hexia. Repello Inimicum…”_

Hurrying across the roof he stopped dead as a loud crack filled the air and two Aurors Apparated in front of him, wands drawn.

 _“Stupefy!”_ they cried.

 _“Protego!”_ Draco shouted and the stunning spells bounced off of the shield. He quickly slashed his wand through the air and bellowed, _“Alarte Ascendare!”_

One of the Aurors yelped as he was flung into the air by an invisible force, disappearing over the edge of the building and out of sight. While the other Auror was temporarily distracted by his partner’s involuntary flight into the air, Draco cast a binding spell. Ropes shot out of Draco’s wand and the Auror twisted and fell hard to the ground, snarling at Draco as he sprinted passed.

“There’s no point running, Malfoy!” he called after him. “More of us are coming!”

Sure enough, there were several other loud cracks and three more Aurors appeared close behind him.

 _“Stupefy!”_ they shouted again, but Draco had already Apparated onto the next roof dodging their attack, firing spells blindly over his shoulder as he ran. His feet slipped and slid on the puddled roofs as he hotfooted, Apparated, jumped and dived from rooftop to rooftop, now with six Aurors in close pursuit. The Aurors were calling for him to stop, but he didn’t listen. His legs began to ache, he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up the chase for much longer. He sprinted as fast as his legs would carry him towards the edge of the next building and jumped without even looking to see where he would be landing. It was only as his feet failed to hit solid ground did he realise that he had run out of roofs to jump to and was quickly falling back to earth. The hard ground was fast approaching, Draco would hit the concrete pavement any moment. He clenched his eyes shut and cried, _“Molliare!”_

Draco felt himself glide towards the ground, landing painlessly on the wet pavement. He let out a harsh laugh of triumph and surprise, shocked that had even worked. Scrambling back to his feet he continued to run down the alleyway, turning left, right, and left again down dark side streets, the shouts of the Aurors still echoing in every direction as they continued to pursue him. As he turned another corner he heard someone behind him shout, _“Petrificus Totalus!”_

The spell stung as it hit Draco squarely on the back and he fell forward. Unable to move his arms to break the fall, he hit the ground face first with a resounding crash. He grunted in pain as he felt his nose break, hot blood spurting from his nostrils and mouth onto the cold, wet ground. Hurried footsteps grew louder and skidded to a halt by his side. He couldn’t see his assailant, but hatred the likes of which Draco had never experienced in his life swelled through him in that moment. No doubt he would now be arrested and whoever had stopped him from escaping had secured his son’s fate. He had failed.

A strong hand gripped his arm and flipped him onto his back. Draco groaned and glared up at his tormentor.

Harry Potter glowered down at him, looking neither pleased nor triumphant at his capture. He pulled something from his pocket and Draco was confused to see not handcuffs, but Potter’s invisibility cloak. Potter threw the silken garment over Draco’s body and pressed his finger to his lips, telling him to be quiet. Draco groaned angrily, trying in vain to fight against the Body-Bind Curse, but he froze as he heard more footsteps approached. Harry straightened up and stood waiting as two people came into view - Katie Bell and Cormac McLaggen, of all people. Was there anyone in the Auror Department who wasn’t a bloody Gryffindor? Ignoring the rain as it battered down onto his unprotected face and obscuring his vision, mild panic began to rise in Draco - he was surrounded, defenceless and unarmed by Potter and his friends. He was well and truly fucked, now. What were they going to do to him?

“Have you apprehended the suspect?” Harry asked. Katie shook her head, looking apologetic.

“I’m sorry sir, we’ve lost track of him,” he replied mournfully. Harry grimaced.

“How is it possible,” he hissed. “That one man can evade a dozen Aurors?”

“I can’t answer that, sir,” she replied, her head bowed. “He had help escaping the hotel, though.”

“From who?” asked Harry inquiringly. Katie shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other, avoiding Harry’s gaze.

“Hermione Granger, sir,” said Cormac. “She fought the Aurors. She put up a hell of a struggle, but we managed to apprehend her.”

“They took her to the Ministry?” Harry asked, his expression remaining impassive. Katie and Cormac nodded. Draco’s eyes darted between Harry and the others - what the hell was going on? Harry waved his hand, dismissing them both.

“Go back to the Leaky Cauldron,” he said quietly. “Gather what evidence we can, we’ll regroup back at the Ministry within the hour.”

Katie and Cormac nodded curtly, turned on their heels and hurried around the corner of the alleyway. Harry watched as they disappeared from view before he turned back to Draco, still lying immobile on the cold, wet ground. Harry pulled the invisibility cloak from Draco and recoiled slightly as his face came into view again.

“Shit. Your nose...” he muttered. With the flick of his wand, the Body-Binding Curse lifted and Draco felt his body relax. Instinctively his hand reached for his nose, crushed and swollen. Harry offered his hand to Draco and he grudgingly took it. Harry easily pulled him back onto his feet then pushed Draco roughly against the brick wall, his wand pointed at his bloodied and bruised face.

_“Episkey.”_

There was a loud click and Draco grunted in pain as his nose reset itself. Harry smirked, but didn’t lower his wand, “I suppose now we’re even.”

“Fuck you,” spat Draco. He tried to shake Harry off but he kept a firm grip on Draco’s sodden cloak. Harry’s hand tightened around his wand.

“Goyle, that was you?” he asked. Draco eyed Harry wearily.

“What’s your angle, Potter? Why did you cover for me?”

“Answer the question,” Harry hissed. Draco hesitated before giving the slightest of nods in confirmation.

“How did you know?” he asked hoarsely.

“A big bloody dagger sticking out of his chest with the Malfoy family crest on it was a fairly big clue,” he sneered. “ _Priori Incantatem_ confirmed you were there, it showed us that Goyle disarmed you before he was killed. And I bet if I were to check you for fresh wounds I’d find a few, eh? Not just the one on your hand.”

Draco glanced from the bandaged hand back to Harry’s face, which was set in a deep frown. This close he looked as though he were getting as many hours sleep as Draco had been.

“Did the Origami Killer put you up to it?” Harry pressed on. Draco pursed his lips and said nothing, but his silence seemed to be the confirmation that Harry had needed. “I never thought you had it in you, if I’m honest. To kill another person.”

“You’d be surprised how far one will go to save their children,” Draco snarled.

“I know all too well,” Harry nodded in the agreement. “You’d kill for them. You’d die for them.”

“What do you want from me?” Draco asked cautiously. He didn’t know what else he had left to give.

“You’re looking for your son, aren’t you?” Harry asked. Draco’s eyes narrowed.

“And what if I am?” he challenged.

“Then you’re running short of time,” said Harry. “It’s been four days and we’re no closer to finding Scorpius. But I think that you are. Hermione didn’t say much, but from what I could guess, you’re a damn sight closer to saving your son than I am. Though not through lack of trying.”

Harry lowered his wand and released his grip on Draco’s cloak. Draco stared at him in disbelief, sure that it was a trick, that if he made a move to leave that Potter would arrest him.

“You’d risk your career for me?” he asked incredulously.

“Not for you,” said Harry, shaking his head. “I’m letting you go so your son has a chance.”

“You’ll lose your job for this,” Draco warned. Harry gave him a wry smile.

“I never realised you cared so much for my well-being,” he mocked. His smile fell as heard voices heading in their direction. Harry pushed him down the alleyway, “Go. Save your boy. I can’t promise you much time, but hopefully it’ll be enough.”

Draco took a cautious step backwards, but Harry made no indication that he was going to stop him. He gave Harry a curt nod in thanks, turned tail and ran as fast as he could in the opposite direction.


	16. The Augurey

Draco ducked into a quiet alleyway, his body pressed against the rough brick wall and he listened. There were no shouts or sounds of heavy footfalls, only his own ragged breaths and the rain beating off of the pavement. Potter seemed to have kept his word, after all.

Draco closed his eyes, taking a moment to catch his breath. Just when he had dared to hope that he had a chance of saving his son, the Ministry were now after him. The universe had yet again proven that things could always get worse, much worse. Then Potter of all people had come out as an unlikely ally. Granger and Potter helping a Malfoy: the world really had gone mad.

He pulled the Augurey figurine out of his pocket, his hands shaking badly as he unfolded it to reveal the address of the fourth and final trial. His irate eyes darted across the parchment as he read.

“Sadler’s Well Theatre, Islington,” he muttered. Draco had never been to the theatre - his parents wouldn’t be seen dead frequenting Muggle establishments - but surprisingly, he knew where it was. He had passed it enough times on route to and from King’s Cross every year when he was going to Hogwarts. It was only a five minute drive from the train station.

Anticipation and fear pulsed through him. He was so close to the end, but he knew this was where he would most likely fail. Now was not the time to lose his head or his concentration. Taking a few steadying breaths to calm his nerves, he pictured the theatre in his mind, took a step forwards and Disapparated.

* * *

After overseeing the search for clues at The Leaky, Harry Apparated back to the Ministry. The search provided no clue as to Malfoy’s current whereabouts, but the evidence they had gathered (washi paper, bloodied rags and parchment in Malfoy’s handwriting listing the locations where the previous victims of the Origami Killer had been found) didn’t paint the man in a particularly positive light. Of course Harry knew that Malfoy hadn’t killed those boys, but he could see how suspicious it looked. Malfoy was many things, but he wasn’t a killer.

The image of Goyle’s body flashed through Harry’s mind and his stomach twisted horribly. He supposed Malfoy was capable of more than he gave him credit for. _That was different,_ he reasoned. _You do what you have to for your children_. He marched down the Atrium, his eyes trailing over the various Undesirable posters that were plastered on the walls either side of him, his eyes fixing on two posters in particular:

 _UNDESIRABLE NO.1_  
_The Origami Killer_  
_Wanted in connection with the MURDER of eight wizarding children._  
_Any information leading to the arrest of this perpetrator will be duly rewarded._

The centre of the poster remained conspicuously blank, a large question mark in place of where the photograph of a suspect ought to be. Harry had looked into the face of evil many times in his life - having a Dark Lord rattling about your head for a few years gives you a unique insight into the mind of a killer - but he would never understand the mindset of any person who would target children. Well, he could...he just didn’t want to understand. His eyes flitted to the next poster and found Draco Malfoy’s face staring back at him:

 _HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WIZARD?_  
_Draco Malfoy, Death Eater_  
_Wanted in connection with the MURDER of Gregory Goyle._  
_Contact the Ministry of Magic immediately if you have any information concerning his whereabouts. Failing to report will result in imprisonment._

Malfoy’s haughty expression sneered at Harry as he walked passed. He sighed and rubbed his tired face. It had been four days since Scorpius had gone missing. Time was running short, he only hoped that he’d given his father enough time to find him and save him. The mess with Goyle wasn’t going to go away - they could be dealt with it later. Hermione, however - that was a different matter entirely.

The elevator doors slid open and Harry stepped in alone, punching two on the elevator button. As the doors clanked shut he took his brief moment of solitude to bury his face into his hands and scream in frustration. Guilt crashed over him in great tidal waves. It was all his fault. He had dragged Hermione into this mess, now thanks to him she was likely to get a criminal record. Despite his best efforts, everything had gone to shit. The bodies were piling up, Hermione was on the wrong side of the law, and he was about to lose his job (the least of his long list of worries). Everyone’s lives were falling apart and he had no clue how to even begin fixing any of it.

As the elevator doors opened, Harry composed himself again, striding as quickly as he could to the interview rooms short of breaking out into a run. Pushing open the door to the only one that was occupied, he stepped inside.

Hermione sat at the table with her head in her hands. Her head snapped up as the door opened and she jumped to her feet.

“Harry!” she cried.

“Sit down, Hermione,” he asked, sinking into the seat on the opposite side of the table. Hermione sat on the edge of hers, looking tense.

“Harry, I’m sorry I got into a fight with the Aurors--”

“You resisted arrest and helped a murder suspect escape,” Harry pointed out. Hermione gaped.

“Murder,” she breathed. “Surely you don’t think he’s the Origami Killer.”

“No, but a lot of other people in the precinct think that he is,” he sighed. “He’s wanted in connection with the murder of Gregory Goyle.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, “Goyle? You think Draco did it?”

“We know he did,” said Harry. “But I suspect it’s connected with the Origami Killer.”

Hermione didn’t look as shocked by that revelation as she should have. Harry rolled his eyes - she definitely knew more than she was letting on. He felt a fresh stab of guilt as he looked at Hermione.

“I’m so sorry for dragging you into this mess, Hermione,” he sighed. “I’ll see what I can do about getting the charges against you dropped.”

“There’s no time to worry about me,” Hermione argued, waving her hand dismissively. “You need to find Draco. He’s going to get himself killed.”

Harry frowned, “What are you talking about?”

Hermione decided now was the time to tell Harry everything. She told him about the killer contacting Malfoy, about the trials, and about the final message challenging Malfoy to forfeit his own life for the sake of his son’s.

“I don’t trust the killer to keep up their end of the bargain,” Hermione finished. “But Draco insisted on going on his own. I was going to follow him, but then your lot turned up.”

“So where is he?” asked Harry. There was a loud knock at the door and Neville stepped in. Harry frowned at him.

“We’re in the middle of an interview,” he chastised. “Now isn’t the time--”

“This can’t wait,” Neville cut in, thrusting paperwork into Harry’s hands. “We know who the killer is.”

Hermione and Harry gaped at Neville.

“You’re certain?” asked Harry, flipping open the chart. Neville nodded.

“We ran with what we knew about the soil samples and carried out searches of wizarding homes in the Devonshire area, as per your instructions. Ron’s parents weren’t too happy about having their house searched, but they cooperated nonetheless. The Lovegoods and the Fawcetts were no trouble, either. But when we went to the Diggory’s residence, nobody was in. But we found these in the front garden.”

Neville pulled out a photograph of Amos Diggory’s house and Harry felt his bloody run cold.

“Narcissi,” he breathed. The garden was covered in bright, yellow daffodils. Neville placed two other photographs in front of Harry.

“We found this in the garden,” said Neville grimly. The first photo was of a large greenhouse. The second was of inside the greenhouse, it was filled with small green shrubs with pale yellow blossoms.

“Gampi shrubs,” Neville confirmed. “Same ones used to make the washi paper. The paper the killer used to make the origami figurines.”

Harry stared up at Neville in disbelief. “It can’t be him.”

Neville nodded solemnly, “We found plenty evidence on the premises that confirms as much. We’ve sent out a red alert to capture him.”

“Amos Diggory,” said Harry, still unable to believe the words as he said them. “Is the Origami Killer.”


	17. Sins of the Father

Draco stared up at the darkened theatre, his heart hammering painfully in his chest. This was it - the final trial. He had no idea what to expect, but he marched up towards the front entrance with his wand drawn, ready for whatever he had to face.

Draco could sense the magic radiating off of the building as he approached - the Fidelius charm, he was sure of it - the air buzzed with a low hum and it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Or perhaps that was because he was afraid, because Draco had never been more frightened in his life. He knew now that he had to die to save his son - it was the only way - but certainty did little to alleviate his fear. It was one thing being scared of dying, it was quite another knowing your days (minutes, in his case) were numbered. But despite the dread that rose in him with each step, his feet continued to carry him forward. Draco reached the front door and gave it a slight push and it opened with ease as though death were inviting him in. Stealing himself, he stepped into the darkened entrance, into the unknown.

 _“Lumos,_ ” he murmured, and white light illuminated the tip of his wand. Eerie shadows crawled up the bare, peeling wallpaper as he stepped further down the corridor, straining his ears for any sign of life. The theatre seemed to have suffered a similar fate to Malfoy Manor - long abandoned and left to rot, the smell of mould and damp filled his nostrils. Draco paused as the corridor split off into three different directions. He didn’t have time to search the place floor by floor, he needed to find Scorpius now.

 _“Homenum Revelio,”_ he whispered. A silver-blue orb of light shot out of the tip of his wand, floating silently and with some speed down the corridor to his left. Draco ran after the light, following it through a labyrinth of corridors, left, right and right again, finally pushing open a set of double doors into a large, derelict theatre.

A large portion of the roof had collapsed onto the stage, rain pouring through the gaping hole in the ceiling like a waterfall. The ball of light drifted lazily across the sodden, mouldy seating area, through the rain then slowed as it came to the centre of the stage before lowering down into the floor, out of sight. Draco ran forwards, climbing over debris onto the stage and edged towards the place where the ball of light had disappeared. Draco gasped and collapsed onto his knees.

“Scorpius!”

There was his son, beneath the stage trap door in what Draco now realised was not a well after all, but a large, circular tank. The rainwater was up to Scorpius’ chin now, sloshing and splashing across his pale, frightened face. The only thing stopping him from slipping under water was the metal grate covering the top of the tank which he clung to desperately.

“Dad!” he cried, reaching out for his father with one hand while clinging to the grate with the other. Draco took his hand and squeezed it hard.

“You’re going to be okay, son,” he assured him. “Daddy’s here, now. Just hold on, I’ll get you out of there.”

“Dad, I’m sorry. The man made me go with him, I didn’t want to--”

“It’s alright. You’ve nothing to be sorry for, son,” said Draco firmly. He gave Scorpius’ hand another reassuring squeeze and pointed his wand at the heavy metal padlock, “Alohomora!”

Nothing happened.

“Shit,” he hissed. He tried to give his son a reassuring look. “Scorpius, I need you to move back to the edge of the tank. Face the wall and cover your face, okay?”

Scorpius nodded vigorously and paddled over to the edge of the tank, coughing and spluttering as water got up his nose. Draco pointed his wand at the padlock again.

“Turn around,” he ordered. _“Confringo!”_

There was a loud explosion and Scorpius screamed, but he kept his face hidden behind his arm. The padlock however, remained undamaged. Draco snarled in frustration, desperately thinking of alternative spells.

 _“Incendio,”_ he cried and the padlock burst into flames, but still it remained sealed. Draco cursed and hurled a barrage of spells at the padlock, _“Expulso! Diffindo! Reducto! Confringo!_ Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!”

Draco grabbed the padlock and tried wrenching it off with his bare hands, but it didn’t budge. He proceeded to scramble around the floor for anything that he might be able to force into the hatch. Pulling a long, metal pole free from the surrounding rubble, he wedged it into the corner of hatch and tried to pry it open, but it wouldn’t budge. Scorpius trembled and cried out for his father as Draco screamed, smashing the pole against the padlock in anger and desperation, but it was no use.

“The padlock is impenetrable. You need the key to unlock it.”

Draco dropped the pole in fright and it clattered to the ground. Spinning round with his wand drawn, he saw a tall man with a ruddy face and a scrubby brown beard lingering by the edge of the stage. He had his hands in his robe pockets and a slight smile teased his thin lips.

“Who are you?” asked Draco. He squinted his eyes in the semi-darkness, trying to get a better look of the man. The stranger huffed out a laugh.

“You wouldn’t recognise me, would you? I’m not surprised. Despite my pureblood status, my family never traversed the elite circles like yours did. We weren’t rich enough or powerful enough for you or your friends to be taken notice of. But that’s alright. Anonymity has its advantages.”

“Dad,” choked Scorpius. Draco glanced back at his son. The water was so high now that he was struggling to keep his face from sinking beneath the surface. Time was almost up.

“H-hold on, son,” he stammered. He turned back to the stranger, his wand pointed at his face. The man hadn’t moved, he hadn’t even drawn his wand. Draco extended his hand, “You have the key, don’t you? Give it to me, then.”

The man shook his head. Ignoring Draco’s demands, he spoke softly, “I must admit, I didn’t think you would come. Not many people would willingly walk to their own deaths. Given your history for cowardice, I thought this might be beyond your limits. But you’ve already exceeded all my expectations, Mr. Malfoy. I’ve been looking for someone like you for a long time. Hoping to find a father who could do what I could not do: to sacrifice himself in order to save his son. Oh, I searched and searched, only to suffer one failure after another. One _disappointment_ after another.”

The stranger took a step towards Draco, the light from his wand throwing his features into sharp relief; his long, salt-and-pepper hair was a straggling mess much like his beard which hid his chiselled features. His bright grey eyes were fixed on Draco, wide and expectant. Draco frowned - the stranger was around his father’s age, and although he was sure they’d never met before, there was something strangely familiar about him.

“You know, I’d almost given up hope of finding a father willing to make the sacrifices required of him. Too often they fell short,” the stranger continued. “Every time they failed, it was like losing Cedric all over again.”

“Cedric…” said Draco, confused. “Cedric Diggory?”

The man Draco now realised to be Amos Diggory gave him a rueful smile.

“Oh, you remember him, do you?” he sneered. “That’s surprising. I didn’t think someone like him would be worth your time to remember. Most people were quick to forget Cedric after the Triwizard Tournament. The Ministry made fast work suppressing what happened in the graveyard, all to cover their own arses. The Prophet lied, publishing some cock and bull story painting Cedric’s death as little more than a tragic accident. As though my boy was some sort of bumbling idiot that got himself killed. It wasn’t right!”

Amos’ voice gradually rose as he spoke until he screamed the last few words. His eyes, red and bloodshot, were practically bulging from his skull. Draco thought he looked quite mad. Amos took a deep breath to compose himself before continuing.

“Of course, the war came next. Not that Abigail or I paid it much mind - the only thing we ever loved had already been taken from us - what could You-Know-Who do to make our lives any worse?”

Amos’ expression darkened, “We thought at least when the war ended, you and your ilk would finally get your comeuppance. But no...history repeated itself and the Death Eaters got another free pass - Zabini. Nott. Parkinson. Flint - you all had blood on your hands, but you got to walk free, live your lives without recompense for your actions. You didn’t deserve to have what he was cruelly denied - freedom, love, children. Seeing you all getting on with your lives like nothing had happened, it was just another unbearable injustice that Abigail could not bear. Died of a broken heart, they said. But really, she died the same night as Cedric - we both did. We’d been living half-lives ever since. She was the only thing that kept me going, and with her gone, I almost ended it then. But then I thought before I shuffled off this mortal coil, it was only right that you lot should finally have to prove your worth - prove that you deserved everything that had been handed so freely to you.”

“So you took our children? You kidnapped and killed those kids just to prove...what exactly? That all fathers failures? That we can never live up to expectations? What was the point in any of this?” asked Draco weakly.

“I only wanted to find a father who was worthy of their son’s love, someone who was willing to give up _everything_ for their son,” said Amos indignantly. “A small ask, you would think. But time and time again, I put stock in men who all fell short of the task I set them. Believe me, the search has been just as taxing on me as it has been on my candidates.”

“You’re mad! You’re completely fucking mad!” Draco thrust his wand into Amos’ cheek. Amos didn’t flinch.

“What’s real love if it isn’t sacrifice?” he challenged. “All those people who say they love each other - they’ve no idea what that really means to truly love someone, to really be willing to lay their lives down for another person. They all said that they would give their lives to save their sons, but I just proved them all to be a pack of liars. Their sons are better off without them.”

“Well, I proved you wrong, didn’t I?,” snarled Draco. “Cause I’m standing right here.”

Amos smiled, “Yes, you are.”

“Dad!” choked Scorpius desperately. Draco grabbed Amos by the scruff of the neck and shook him hard.

“Listen to me, you bastard, I’m done playing your games. I finished your damn trials, now give me the fucking key!”

“No! You will listen to what I have to say, Mr. Malfoy. Your son’s life depends on it!” bellowed Amos, making no effort to free himself from Draco’s grip. “Have you any idea what it’s like? The pain and suffering of your own child dying and there’s nothing you can do about it? Well, I suppose you do - more than anyone else, you can relate on some small level to what I’m feeling. Maybe that’s why you’re different. Maybe that’s why you’ve succeeded where the others have failed - you already know the pain of losing a child. The thought of losing another...it must be unbearable.”

“And you saw fit to try and take my other son from me!” shouted Draco, jabbing the tip of his wand into Amos’ cheek. “If you already knew the pain of losing a child, why would you threaten to put me through it twice? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Quite a lot,” Amos’ conceded with a weak laugh. “I just want you all to get a sense of what I feel. To everyone else, Cedric was the spare. The best of me was a spare. _Dispensable_.”

Draco glanced over at the hatch in panic as Scorpius’ face bobbed in and out the surface of the water. He was going to be able to hold out much longer. Draco turned back to Amos and pleaded, “Look, haven’t I already proven I’ll do anything you ask? Just tell me what you want and let my son go. Please.”

“I will,” he assured him. “In a moment. I just need you to answer one question for me - how can you live with yourself?”

“What do you mean?” snapped Draco.

“How can you live with yourself?” Amos repeated. It wasn’t so much a taunt as a plea, “You were the target, but your eldest son died instead. How do you keep on living knowing that your own child is dead because you failed to protect him?”

It was a question that Draco had asked himself every day for the last two years. The guilt was as acute as the pain of losing Cetus. Every day was a struggle, every waking moment he wanted to lay down and not get back up again. A large part of him wanted to join Cetus, thought it might be better for everyone in the end if he did just submit to his guilt and end it all. Draco glared at Amos and for the briefest of moments it was like looking into a mirror - they shared the same pain, the same guilt. But then Scorpius came to the forefront of his mind - what did Draco’s pain matter compared to that of his surviving son’s? Everything else paled in comparison to what his boy needed. And his boy needed him now. Draco glowered at Amos.

“It’s not about living,” he explained. “It’s about surviving. For him.” he nodded towards his son. Amos’ eyes narrowed.

“That’s what Malfoy’s excel at, isn’t it? They survive at all costs, even if it means trampling over others in the process.”

“You’re damn right it does,” he snarled. “That’s why I’m standing here, isn’t it? I’ll do whatever’s necessary to protect my son. Can you say you did the same for yours?”

Hurt streaked across Amos’ face at those words and Draco held his breath, afraid that losing his temper would cost his son’s only chance of freedom. Amos drew himself to his full height and glared at Draco.

“I hate you,” he declared. “With every fiber of my being, I hate you. Every step of this journey, I’ve wished you dead, certain that you would fail. What else was I to expect? Draco Malfoy, the boy who couldn’t kill Dumbledore, even to save himself. But however much I hate you, I respect how far you’ve come. I respect that you’ve been able to do what I never could.”

Amos whistled suddenly, the shrill sound echoing through the empty theatre. A moment later, the sound of wings flapping, and through the darkness soared a magpie. It landed on Amos’ outstretched arm, a large key attached to its leg. Amos took the key, gave the bird and affectionate pat on the head before it took off again, quickly swallowed by the darkness. He thrust the key into Draco’s hand. Without a second thought, Draco let go of Amos and ran towards the hatch. Dropping to his knees by the tank he felt his blood run cold - Scorpius was floating facedown in the water.

“No no no…” he stammered, his hands shaking as he tried to unlock the padlock. Scorpius wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be. The key turned easily and clicked loudly as the padlock unlocked and clattered to the ground. Draco wrenched the hatch open and roughly pulled Scorpius out of the water, laying him on his back on the side of the stage. He was limp like a rag doll in his father’s arms, his pale lips tinged blue.

“Scorp! Scorp, please answer me,” Draco pleaded, pressing his ear to Scorpius’ lips - he wasn’t breathing. Draco began chest compressions and blowing air into Scorpius’ lungs, muttering all the while over and over again, “Don’t die on me, son. You’ve got to breath. Please. You’ve got to breath! Don’t leave me, Scorp. Please, don’t leave me. Please…”

“It’s a fitting end, isn’t it?” Amos mocked, watching Draco desperately try to bring his son back to life. “There’s no justice in the world for any of us - for you, for me...for Cedric. I couldn’t save my son, either. At least your son got to see you before he died.”

Draco ignored the taunts and continued his efforts to save Scorpius, his mind singularly focused on the task at hand: compressions, breath, listen, repeat, compressions, breath, listen, repeat…then--

Scorpius coughed and water spurted out of his mouth. He took deep, rattling breaths and tried to sit up. Draco cried out with relief and pulled Scorpius into a bone-crushing hug, afraid to let him go.

“Scorpius, I thought I’d lost you.”

“Dad,” he croaked. “You came for me.”

“Of course I did,” Draco laughed weakly, feverishly kissing Scorpius’ cheeks and forehead, cradling him tightly in his arms in a protective embrace. “You’re safe now, Scorp. You’re safe now. I’ve got you…”

Scorpius clung tightly to his father, shivering from the cold and fright, but very much alive. For a heartbeat at least, all of Draco’s fears and pain had been vanquished - Scorpius was alive. Everything was going to be okay. So caught up in the moment, Draco momentarily forgot where they were and who stood a few feet away, watching the tearful reunion.

“You really have exceeded all of my expectations, Mr. Malfoy,” praised Amos. Draco wanted to tell Amos to go fuck himself, but he held his tongue, acutely aware of the danger they were still in. Amos drew his wand and pointed it at Draco. Scorpius cried and out buried his face into father’s robes. Instinctively Draco pushed his son behind his back to shield him.

“You said you’d let us go if I completed the trials. I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me, just let us go!” he pleaded.

“I said I’d let your son go, Mr. Malfoy, I didn’t say anything about letting you go,” Amos countered.

“You bastard,” hissed Draco.

“I know,” Amos agreed. Draco’s heart sank. For one glorious moment he believed he might get out of this alive. He should have known better. Without taking his eye off of Amos’ wand, he tried to push Scorpius towards the exit.

“Scorpius, I need you to go now,” he explained calmly. “Just run. Keep running and don’t stop.”

Scorpius however, wouldn’t budge.

“No,” he replied shortly. “I’m not leaving without you.”

“This isn’t the time to argue!” shouted Draco, trying to pry his son’s fingers free from his cloak. “You need to go right now.” _Before Amos changes his mind_ , he thought desperately. Scorpius continued to struggle with him, so he grabbed his shoulders and gave him a light shake, “Listen to me! I am your father and you will do as your told!”

“NO!” Scorpius cried, throwing his arms around Draco’s waist. He looked pleadingly at Amos, “Don’t hurt my dad--”

“Scorpius, please,” groaned Draco, tears and rain streaming down his face indistinguishable from one another. Scorpius looked terrified, but still he refused to let go of his father.

“Leave him alone!” he shouted at Amos. The words came out with utter conviction, and although they were spoken by a child, Amos looked as though they had struck him with real force. Amos wavered, his wand hanging limply in his hand as he stared at them both. After a moment, his expression transformed. He looked resolute.

“Congratulations Mr. Malfoy,” he declared. “You’re the father I’ve been looking for all these years. Thank you.”

He gave Draco a serene smile and raised his wand.

Draco screamed and turned, shielding Scorpius with his body just as the vision behind his eyes was illuminated in green light. He fell forwards into the familiar embrace of darkness, sure he was finally dead this time.

There was a loud splash, then stillness. It was completely silent except for the pitter patter of the rain and Scorpius whimpering beneath Draco’s body. He opened his eyes and looked around. Why wasn’t he dead?

Tentatively he turned to face Amos, convinced that the man had played one final trick on him - cruelly letting Draco get his hopes up before finally striking him down for good - but instead the man lay sprawled out across the stage, his wand limp in his hand. His eyes stared unseeing up at the cloudy night sky, a faint smile fixed to his face.

“Dad?” asked Scorpius, his voice shaking. Draco sat up and pulled Scorpius onto his lap, covering him with his cloak to try and shield him from the rain.

“It’s okay son,” he said soothingly. “It’s over.”

There were several loud cracks and a number of Aurors appeared on the stage, wands drawn and pointed at Draco. He lifted his hands in surrender as the Aurors began screaming instructions at him.

“Wands down!” bellowed a voice above all others. Harry came into view, pushing the Auror’s wand arms down as he strode towards Draco. “I said, wands down!”

He knelt in front of Draco and Scorpius, a look of wild panic written across his face. He saw Scorpius tucked closely in Draco’s arms and the tension in his shoulders eased a little.

“You got him,” he sighed in relief. “Is he alright?”

“I think so,” said Draco uncertainly. “We need to get him to St. Mungo’s.”

Scorpius peered out from the folds of his father’s cloak, eyes wide with fright and surprise.

“Harry Potter?” he said quietly. Harry smiled kindly at him.

“Yes, I’m Harry Potter,” he confirmed. “And you’re Scorpius Malfoy?” Scorpius grinned and his face went beetroot red. Draco rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Scorpius here a big fan of yours, Potter. Merlin knows why…”

Harry’s grin widened, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Scorpius.”

“Scorpius!”

Harry, Draco and Scorpius looked up as Astoria came sprinting across the theatre towards her son.

“Mum!”

Scorpius reached out and Astoria pulled him out of Draco’s lap and into her arms, kissing him and hugging him tightly as tears poured freely down her cheeks. Harry gave Draco a pat on the shoulder.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly. Draco shrugged. He felt numb. He was still trying to process what the hell had just happened.

“Yeah,” he nodded meekly. “I’m just...really tired.”

“We’ll get you seen to, then,” Harry turned to the Auror closest to him and barked, “Get me a Healer here to check the boy over. We’ll be transferring both Scorpius and Draco Malfoy directly to St. Mungo’s. Understood?” The Auror nodded curtly and Disapparated.

“How did you know where we were?” asked Draco curiously.

Harry smirked, “Hermione told me about the trace she had put on that Galleon. It’s still in your pocket, yeah?” Draco smiled weakly. So Granger was still looking out for him.

“She isn’t in trouble because of me, is she?” he asked.

“She’s still in custody at the moment, but I’ll work something out for her,” Harry assured him. “After she told us about the trace, we came here as soon as we could but with the Fidelius charm in place, we couldn’t get into the building. We were only able to gain access after the Secret Keeper died. After Amos…”

Harry turned towards Amos Diggory and his sentence trailed.

“Did you do that or…”

“He killed himself,” said Draco. Harry gave a curt nod.

“I should have known,” he lamented darkly. “He was never the same after Cedric died. I should have visited him more often, I--”

“The man was a lunatic,” Draco cut in. “No amount of time, love and attention can fix that.”

“Maybe not,” Harry relented. “But I think this was all to do with Cedric. It always was. He was consumed with guilt about his own shortcomings as a father, for not being able to save his son, and he projected that failure onto others.”

“Interesting psych evaluation, Potter, but honestly I couldn’t give a shit why he did what he did,” spat Draco.

“Dad,” chided Scorpius quietly. Draco grinned and pushed damp hair from his forehead.

“Sorry, son,” he whispered. “I know I shouldn’t say bad words.”

Harry leaned closer to Draco and spoke quietly so only hear, “We’ll get you both checked out, but then I’m going to have to take you in, Draco. I know there’s extenuating circumstances to consider, but what happened to Goyle...there are always consequences for our actions.”

Draco nodded slowly, “I understand. Just let me be sure Scorpius is alright, then I’ll do what you ask.”

“Of course,” said Harry gently. There was another loud _crack_ and a woman dressed in lime green robes appeared and rushed to Draco and Scorpius’ side. Harry rose to his feet and stepped away, allowing the Healer to check them over. He turned to address the Aurors.

“Spread out, collect the evidence and get it back to the labs as quickly as you can. I want to get word out as soon as possible that the Origami Killer has been stopped.”

There was a chorus of ‘Yes sir’ and the Aurors set to work. Harry walked over to Amos and knelt by his side, disgust and guilt pulsing through him in sickening waves. Despite Draco’s dismissal that Amos was little more than a lunatic, Harry couldn’t help but wonder if Cedric had lived, would Amos still have fallen down such a dark and twisted path and becoming the Origami Killer? Harry didn’t think so. Amos’ grief had warped him from a kindly, loving father into something entirely unrecognisable - a monster in most people’s eyes, but in Harry’s eyes...undoubtedly still a monster, but one in a great deal of pain. One that Harry felt in some small part he’d played a part in creating.

Harry’s eyes were drawn to something colourful sticking out of Amos’ breast pocket. Slipping his fingers into the pocket he pulled out a narcissus, pressed flat and dried like parchment, and a small black and white photograph of Cedric. He grinned up at Harry, a single peaceful moment in time captured and preserved forever, blissfully unaware of the darkness that was yet to befall all of them. Cedric’s death hadn’t just been a catalyst for the second Wizarding War, it had set off a chain of events across twenty years, leading to this very moment. Harry clenched his fists so tightly his nails dug into the soft flesh of his palms, tears stinging the corners of his eyes.

So much death. And for what?

Harry slipped the photograph and the pressed flower into his cloak pocket. Looking up at the night sky he realised that the rain had finally stopped.


	18. Epilogue

_Two Years Later_

It was a beautiful day, Harry thought. He stood atop a hill overlooking the quiet village of Ottery St. Catchpole, surrounded by a sea of sun-yellow daffodils that swayed lazily in the wind. Far away in a distant field he could make out small figures tumbling through the air on broomsticks - Albus and James (he couldn’t tell which from this far away, they were so similar in appearance) were chasing a small boy with white-blonde hair. Scorpius had definitely taken after his father, he was a skilled flyer. Since starting Hogwarts two years ago, it had come as a surprise to everyone when Draco and Harry’s sons had become the best of friends. Harry wasn’t that surprised - he’d gotten to know the boy a little better since Hermione and Draco had become an item, and Scorpius shared a lot of the same interests as his youngest son.

Harry saw Hermione come into view, arm in arm with a tall platinum-haired man that could only be Draco. Hermione and Draco - that had come as a bit more of a shock to him and Ron, especially given their tumultuous relationship at school. But then the extraordinary events that had thrust them together had forged a friendship that couldn’t be broken. She was a vocal supporter of Draco during his trial, arguing that the Origami Killer was ultimately responsible for Goyle’s death and that Draco was as much a victim as his friend was. Harry had also spoken in defence of Draco’s actions that the trial, and for the first time in his life things turned in Draco’s favour. Along with Hermione’s testimony and the memories recovered from Scorpius and Draco, he won the sympathy of the Wizengamot and the sentencing was as lenient as it possibly could be - one year’s house arrest and a sizable fine was a small price to pay for his freedom.

Of course, not every loose end could be tied up so neatly. This was after all, real life - more often than not, it was messy and unjust. The Aurors were quick to recover Theo Nott’s body from Azkaban and Pansy was able to give him a proper burial, laying him to rest alongside his son. The whereabouts of Zabini and Flint remained a mystery, but they were believed to have died trying to save their sons. It was frustrating for Harry to have no real closure for the families. Amos may have died, but he took many secrets to the grave - where the other bodies were, and a real explanation as to why he had committed these heinous crimes in the first place. Nobody was sorry that the man was dead, but whether justice had been served was another matter entirely.

The Origami Case was the final nail in the proverbial coffin for Harry’s career at the Ministry. He might have a knack for getting into the mindset of a killer, but he had had enough of immersing himself in the murky depths of their minds - Harry handed in his resignation soon after the case had concluded. He fancied walking in the sunlight for a while instead.

Harry watched as Draco kicked off the ground and flew into the air, chasing the boys on broomsticks. Hermione’s shouts warning them to be careful carried in the wind towards him and he smiled - it was funny how Hermione would follow Harry into all manner of dangerous situations without hesitation, but she drew the line at riding a broomstick. More figures were coming into view, all with red hair - Ron, George, Ginny - everyone was taking advantage of the fine weather to play while Hermione remained firmly rooted to the ground. Flying had never been her thing, but she insisted she was happy to watch proceedings from the edge of the field with a book to keep her occupied. Harry was keen to join the game, but he had a matter of importance to attend to first.

Turning his back on the pleasant scene unfolding before him, he turned his attention to the three small white granite headstones in front of him. Amos, Abigail and Cedric Diggory were laid to rest not far from where the family had lived in happier times. Harry found it easy to imagine a young Cedric running through these fields with his father, perhaps they had even stood on this very spot and looked down towards the village - it was as peaceful as it was beautiful in its solitude. Maybe that’s why Amos had buried his son here some twenty years ago.

Not many people had attended Amos’ funeral, fewer still were sorry to see him gone. Harry had attended of course. Despite everything, he felt he owed it to Cedric to see his father off. He spared little thought for the man who had cast misery on others for his own selfish reasons. He was here for Cedric. Harry pulled out the pressed flower and photograph of Cedric from his breast pocket. They fluttered in Harry’s hand as the wind whipped up around his face, a pleasant breeze cooling him from the harsh heat of the sun.

“I’ve been meaning to return these to you,” he said, addressing Cedric’s gravestone. “I’m not sure why I held onto them for so long - I suppose I hoped they would help me make sense of everything that happened, but they didn’t really. You know, I thought as I got older, life would make more sense. If anything it’s just gotten more confusing. I try not to let my son’s know that I’m completely terrified and clueless most of the time. I think sometimes they suspect me of knowing as much now as when I was fourteen. You’d like them, you know. James especially, he’s a keen flyer like we were. More popular than I was mind, he’s more like you in that regard.”

Harry stood silent for a few moments, listening to the cries of laughter of his family in the distance. It was difficult not to let his feelings of guilt overwhelm, even after all these years. If Harry hadn’t convinced Cedric to share in the victory and hold that cup with him, he would have lived. He could easily have joined Harry’s family down the field to play a game of Quidditch with them today, perhaps with his own sons and daughters. But it was not to be. Instead Cedric lay here in the ground, surrounded by a sea of beautiful flowers, silent, still, unseeing. Harry roughly wiped tears away from his eyes, annoyed that he still got so upset when he came to visit, however briefly.

“I’ve come here every year since you died to tell you how sorry I am for what happened that night. That I know it wasn’t fair. You know if I could change the past, I would. But I can’t. I’m so sorry, Cedric…”

“Harry!”

Harry snapped out of his morbid reverie and turned to see Ginny hovering in midair on a broomstick, beckoning him to join them. He waved back at her then turned back to Cedric’s grave. He had lost so many people in his short life, it was all too easy for him to become lost in a spiral of mourning. Thank Merlin Ginny was always there to pull him back into the land of the living. It was something that Draco had spoken candidly about with him - losing his son had nearly destroyed him, but his love for Scorpius gave him the will to carry on. Harry thought of his family and felt his spirits lift a little - the pain of loss never left him, but thinking of the love of those still with him eased it a little.

“Your father was wrong, you know,” said Harry. “He thought that everyone had forgotten you, but I’m still here. I never forgot you and I never will. I know it probably doesn’t mean much coming from me, but I just wanted you to know that. I’ll never forget you, Cedric, and I’ll keep coming back. Every year. And I’ll tell my kids about you, so that way they’ll remember you, too.”

Harry knelt before Cedric’s grave and dug a small hole in the soil with his bare hands. He carefully placed the photograph and the flower in the hole before filling it in again. Rising back to his feet he closed his eyes and sighed.

“I wish you were here to see it, Cedric,” he said quietly. “It really is a beautiful day.”


End file.
